


I Could...

by Julibean19



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alpha Peter, Alpha Scott McCall, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amnesiac Stiles Stilinski, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bottom Stiles Stilinski, Codependency, Domestic Peter, Emotional Peter, Established Relationship, Fitness Instructor Stiles, Full Shift Peter, Future Fic, Good Peter, Hospitalization, Hurt Peter, Implied Versatile Peter Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Knotting, Lawyer Peter Hale, M/M, Malia Doesn't Exist, Mating Bites, Mating Bond, Medical Inaccuracies, Medical Trauma, Men Crying, Murder, Near Miss Infidelity, Oral Sex, Panic Attacks, Past Character Death, Peter cooks, Post-Nogitsune Stiles Stilinski, So Married, Stiles Leaves Beacon Hills, Stiles Leaves the Pack, Surrogacy, Top Peter Hale, Violence, Vomiting, Werewolf Mates, post season 3B, rape mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-19
Updated: 2017-03-11
Packaged: 2018-09-16 21:01:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 65,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9289421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Julibean19/pseuds/Julibean19
Summary: Stiles froze.  He knew that voice.  The way it said his name.  He was immediately brought back to a dark parking garage, sharp claws biting into his neck, red eyes flashing, and a jaw practically unhinging to swallow him whole.  A shiver ran down his spine as he finally placed it.The man in the shower was Peter Hale.What business did Peter Hale have with Stiles?  Why was he laying out Stiles’ clothes and making him healthy lunches?  Why did Stiles wake up wrapped in his 20,000 thread count sheets with a wedding ring on his finger?  What was happening?





	1. The Trouble with Memories is Sometimes They Lie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Silvertemper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvertemper/gifts).



> This is the story I wrote for NaNoWriMo 2016. It's in the editing phase now, but is complete and will be updating as I edit. It sits at about 62k words right now. I'm posting it for Trope Day for Peter Hale Ship Week, because who doesn't love all the angst that comes with amnesia fics?!
> 
> I gift this fic to [Silvertemper](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Silvertemper) who has been a huge supporter of my writing and gave me my very first prompt ever, over a year ago, which I have finally made good on. You asked for a story where Stiles was kicked out of the pack and Peter left with him. I definitely turned that idea on its head, but I hope you enjoy this anyway. I'm sorry it took me forever!
> 
> Any and all mentions of the Backstreet Boys I firmly blame on [Annabeth_Crestfallen_LeMorte](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Annabeth_Crestfallen_LeMorte). You're welcome, lol.
> 
> Huge thanks to [CaptainVonChan](http://captainvonchan.tumblr.com/) for continuing to beta for me, even when I annoy the crap out of her. Another gigantic thank you to [OceanandSpace](http://archiveofourown.org/users/oceanandspace) for sprinting with me throughout the writing process. I wouldn't have made it through NaNo without you. Also thanks to [Triangulum](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Triangulum) for pre-reading for me and pointing out some glaring errors.
> 
> Chapter titles come from songs that can be found on [this](https://play.spotify.com/user/julibean19/playlist/6RRGguWIlGYmE0ExxTi4b4) Spotify playlist or [this](https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL8I6-ZZtm7d2sDwiB0VryZFsblUicZcYB) YouTube playlist.

Stiles had a splitting headache. His vision was swimming, and while there was a lot of noise bouncing around inside his eardrums, he couldn’t make out what any of it was. Squinting against the faint morning light, Stiles clutched his aching head, taking a deep breath and suppressing the urge to vomit. 

Slowly, the clamber in his ears settled into a dull roar and Stiles could finally tell what the noise was. In reality, it wasn’t loud at all. It was the soft, lulling sound of the shower running. Had he forgotten that he was about to shower? Where was he?

He looked around, still rubbing his temples, trying to shake whatever hellish migraine had woken him up. The sheets he sat on were incredibly soft. They must have been absurdly expensive, because he had woken up in an enormous California King sized bed that had at least six pillows on it. The furniture was sleek and modern, with nothing out of place. Nothing that could tell him where he was. Stiles reached an arm over to the opposite side of the bed where the tell-tale dip of the mattress told him that another person had been sleeping there recently. 

The sheets were still warm.

He stood up quickly, nearly clotheslining himself on a modern looking swing lamp that had been set over the nightstand. Stiles’ eyes flicked back to the door on the opposite side of the room where he heard the water running. Someone else was here. Wherever here was. A chill swept through Stiles’ body as he realized he was buck-ass naked. He searched around the floor for whatever clothes he had been wearing the previous night—before he had had a serious lapse in judgment and apparently went home with a very tidy millionaire—but there was nothing.

Stiles lunged for the dresser and yanked the top drawer open. Underwear. Good, good, underwear was good. He grabbed a pair of navy blue boxer briefs and pulled them on, noticing that they fit him pretty well. Next, he went for the second drawer where he found a series of graphic tees, all folded in the precise way that let him see what was on the front of each one. His hand stilled as it ran over a Captain America logo. Batman… Star Wars… Doctor Who? All of his favorites were present. Had he slept with a nerdy friend? A stranger?

Stiles begrudgingly pulled on the first shirt he found and slammed the drawer shut. In the third drawer, he found cargo pants and jeans that fit much tighter than he would like, but could still be zippered and buttoned. His head swam as he bent over to pull them on, vision going black for a few seconds. He threw them on quickly, all the while looking over his shoulder at the bathroom door, praying it wouldn’t open until he was dressed and gone. 

Spinning around the room frantically, Stiles searched for his cell phone, wallet, and keys. Surely he hadn’t lost all three of them on whatever drunken adventure he had been on last night. 

He nearly tripped on a silky, slippery sheet that had fallen from the bed on his way to the nightstand. There wasn’t much there. Only a glass of water, an open bottle of ibuprofen, and a composition notebook with a pen closed in it. Hoping to get some information about where he was, Stiles opened the notebook. It was mostly useless, just random notes jumbled together, a grocery list, a few sketches of what looked like dance steps or possibly work-out routines. 

What troubled Stiles more than his utter lack of any idea what was going on, was that the book was written in what could have been his handwriting. 

“Stiles?” a voice called from the bathroom, scaring him enough that he snapped the book closed and threw it, knocking the pill bottle and the glass of water from the table. He winced, hoping the shower would keep running and the sound of the water had muffled the noise of the glass shattering on the sleek hardwood floor and pills rolling everywhere. 

“You better be up when I get out there, mister!” the voice called again. Stiles spun on the spot, hoping his cell phone and keys would just magically appear in front of him. “Baby, you have to wake up or you’re going to be late! I know you teach back to back classes this afternoon, so I made you that quinoa salad you liked with the cucumbers?” the voice kept talking, detailing out Stiles’ entire day like they were married or something.

Or something… 

Horror struck Stiles as he closed his eyes. He ran a hand through his hair and cringed when he felt something hard rub against his scalp. Keeping one eye closed, Stiles slowly opened the other, squinting at his left hand. 

And there it was. A ring on his finger. 

It was white gold, or some silver metal at least, with a rope-like twist running through the middle. Stiles felt a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth when he realized the inner ring with the rope on it spun. He could rub his thumb across it and let it whir in a circle, a soft metallic whoosh sound emitting every time. The bottom dropped out of his stomach. Whoever had bought this ring clearly knew him very well. All hopes of a drunken Vegas wedding flew out the window.

“Well you ate all of it the last time I made it, so I assume you liked it,” the voice kept speaking, pulling Stiles’ attention back to the bathroom door. He really needed to find his phone, or at the very least his car keys before whoever it was got out of the shower. Stiles felt a tiny little tug at his heartstrings when leaving the room crossed his mind. He didn’t want to think about the implications too hard, but a small part of him wanted to stay and hear the rest of what the man had to say.

“We have reservations at Fraces at 6:15, so make sure you take your suit with you to the gym. I left it hanging by the door. Your dress shoes are in your gym bag. Just make sure you shower a bit early this time so your hair isn’t wet. You know I can’t keep my hands off you when your hair is wet, and I don’t want to miss our anniversary dinner because we’re too busy fucking in that disgusting locker room again. I’ll pick you up at 6, okay?”

Stiles opened and closed his mouth. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to answer or not. Surely this person would be able to tell him what had happened last night to make him so foggy and nauseated. And besides that, he kind of wanted to get a look at whatever idiot had been foolish enough to marry him. Despite these other feelings, the one that overwhelmed him was fear. 

“I’m going to need an actual answer, Stiles,” the voice purred as the shower shut off abruptly. Stiles heard the shower door open and close. “Come on, honey. If I don’t hear you say anything, I’m going to have to assume you’re still sleeping. And if you’re still sleeping you’re going to be in big trouble. You have a class of very punctual little old ladies waiting for you, and if you’re late they’re going to beat you with their handbags and yoga mats.”

Stiles froze. He knew that voice. The way it said his name. He was immediately brought back to a dark parking garage, sharp claws biting into his neck, red eyes flashing, and a jaw practically unhinging to swallow him whole. A shiver ran down his spine as he finally placed it. 

The man in the shower was Peter Hale. 

What business did Peter Hale have with Stiles? Why was he laying out Stiles’ clothes and making him healthy lunches? Why did Stiles wake up wrapped in his 20,000 thread count sheets with a wedding ring on his finger? What was happening? 

It could be a curse. Yeah… a witch with a revenge boner or something… that had to be it. He needed to get home. He needed Lydia and a pile of magic books and maybe even some of Deaton’s voodoo to get a magical divorce from Peter Hale.

The sound of an electric toothbrush turning on shocked Stiles into movement. He couldn’t let Peter see him here. He had to get out, immediately. He needed to get home and see his father and talk to Scott and figure out what was going on. There was no way in hell that he had married Peter of his own free will. He was only 18 years old. There had to be something supernatural going on. 

Stiles slipped on the sheet again as he ran for the door, bruising his shoulder as he practically threw himself into it before he could get the doorknob to turn. 

“I love you, baby!” Peter called from the bathroom, having heard Stiles’ mad dash for escape. “Have a good day. And don’t forget! 6 o’clock!”

Stiles ran for the front door, barely glancing at the suit Peter had laid out for him as he searched for a pair of shoes. Finding a pair of flip flops, he jammed his feet into them, nearly knocking over a small table in his haste. The table had a basket on it, and there, Stiles found his wallet, but still no keys. Spinning around again, he caught sight of a row of hooks by the door, but no sign of his Jeep’s keys. Sighing heavily, Stiles chose the Mazda, leaving the BMW (and was that a Bentley logo?) ones behind.

Wrenching the door open, Stiles stumbled out into the bright sunlight, barely catching himself before he careened down the steep flight of stairs that led to the rowhouse he had just exited. He jammed down on the unlock button of the key fob, praying the car was nearby. Thankfully, a flashing across the street caught his eye and he ran for it, throwing himself into the driver’s seat and pushing the button to turn on the engine. 

The mirrors and seat were all perfectly adjusted and there was an ID badge in the cupholder with his face on it, the name “Stiles Hale” written below the Southside Gym logo. This was his car. His name was Stiles Hale. He really had married Peter. Stiles threw the car into drive and pulled away from the curb, speeding off down the massive hill they lived atop. He ran through a yellow light, barely missing a trolley that had been in the intersection. 

San Francisco. They lived in San Francisco. Stiles wasn’t even sure he knew the way home, but eventually, he saw an interstate sign and headed north, shaking his head every time his vision started to dim.


	2. What You Wish For, Won't Come True

Stiles really wished he had taken a bit more time to look for his cell phone before he had run from the house. He wanted to call his dad, Scott, somebody at least, and have them explain to him exactly what was happening. As it was, he hadn’t realized how long of a drive it would be back to Beacon Hills. Three hours had already gone by in silence before Stiles needed to pull over for gas and caffeine. He was still feeling nauseated and hoped something hot and fried would make him feel better. In his opinion, french fries were the cure to any hangover.

Seeing a sign advertising an In-and-Out and a Chevron, Stiles took the Redding exit and filled up his tank. There it was again, right on his honest-to-god Barclay’s Black Card: Stiles Hale. He was rich. Or at least Peter was, and he had unlimited privileges. Part of him wanted to stop at the nearest mall and go on a spree, but he was really more interested in getting home to his father, so he settled on two Double Doubles, Animal Style, fries, a large Coke, and a strawberry milkshake. Not exactly the splurge he wanted, but it had to be better than whatever quinoa health shit Peter had him eating.

Peter.

He was married to Peter Hale. It still baffled his mind. What crackpot old witch had decided him and Peter were destined to be together? They barely tolerated each other. Stiles had been on the receiving end of Peter’s dirty-uncle-bad-touch enough times to know that he would never have gone there, no matter how hot Peter’s goatee made him feel under the collar. After devouring his meal, Stiles headed to the bathroom. He had just squirted some soap into his hands to wash up when he caught his reflection in the mirror.

What. The. Fuck.

The automatic sink shut off while Stiles still had a hand full of soap. He had been staring in the mirror for a solid minute and was still no closer to figuring out what he was looking at than when he first started. It was him, obviously, and yet, something was distinctly different. His cheekbones and jaw were more pronounced, he was clearly in better shape than he had been. Maybe Peter’s health food diet had been doing him some good after all.

Apart from that, his skin was what stood out the most. The crinkles at his corners were deeper, more pronounced, and he seemed to have a permanent crease between his eyebrows that definitely hadn’t been there before. His chin felt much rougher, like his facial hair had finally grown in, and if he leaned in close, he could see a few grays sprinkled in amongst the brown. His eyebrows hitched up higher as he considered that. Turning his head to the side and then ducking down to look at the top, Stiles’ long fingers combed through his hair, searching for and then finding strands of lighter silver interspersed with his usual honey brown.

I’m old, he thought to himself, eyes widening as all the clues finally coalesced. He backed up from the mirror and noticed one more thing. Not only was he trimmer in the waist and bulkier in the arms than before, he was at least four inches taller. It hadn’t been noticeable because his car seat had been in the correct spot, but even as he took a minute to pace the small bathroom, Stiles could tell his gait was different. He didn’t feel quite as clumsy as before. Thinking back to what he had seen in his notebook earlier that morning, it became obvious that he was something of a dancer.

It was funny, he’d never considered himself graceful before, being much more likely to knock something over than to move deliberately, but as he ran his hands down the legs of his jeans, Stiles realized there were cuts in his thighs. He flexed experimentally. The jeans seemed to strain to contain his muscles. For once in his life, Stiles felt powerful. He caught his own face in the mirror and smiled at himself. So this is what he had to look forward to. He had to say, in the looks department, things were trending up, but as for relationships…

More determined than ever to find his pack and get to the bottom of whatever cross-dimensional travel he was caught up in, Stiles left the restaurant and got back on the road.

A little more nervous than before, the silence in the car started to get to him. Stiles turned on the radio and confirmed without a doubt that he was indeed in the future, or at least the future of a different world. He didn’t recognize a single song on the Top 40. He needed to get home.

Another two hours and Stiles was finally speeding past Beacon Hills High and coming to a screeching halt in front of the McCall’s house. There was a car he didn’t recognize in the driveway and Stiles stopped short on his race up the front path. It was possible Melissa didn’t even live here anymore. His vision blurred again as he took a deep breath.

He didn’t dwell on the thought for very long, because after a few pounds on the door, Melissa appeared, pulling him inside. She was in pajamas, obviously had the day off, and looked older, but just as beautiful as ever, soft wispy curls escaping from the bun on top of her head.

“Stiles!” she exclaimed, shocked to see him. “What are you doing here?”

“I need to talk to Scott,” he said, already bounding up the thankfully familiar staircase. “Where is he?”

“Probably at work,” Melissa called back up the stairs, searching the couch for her cell phone. “Why are you looking here anyway? Did you already check his place?”

“I would have if I knew where it was!” Stiles shouted back, opening all the doors wide and searching frantically for his friend, even though it was becoming obvious that he hadn’t lived with his mother for quite some time. Reaching the master bedroom, Stiles stopped short. There, in the hamper, mixed in with Melissa’s scrubs, were several BCPD uniforms.

It couldn’t be… could it? He strode further into the room and caught sight of his father’s brands of deodorant and cologne on the dresser along with an old framed picture of Stiles and Scott, at about 7 years old.

“My dad lives here?” he shouted again, bounding back down the stairs to interrogate Melissa. “Since when?”

“Since we got married,” Melissa said, shaking her head. “You would probably remember the date if you had bothered to show up,” she said, exasperated, like this was a long belabored argument.

“Where’s my dad? The station?” he asked, patting his jeans pocket to make sure he still had the car keys before heading back to the door.

“Just where do you think you’re going?” Melissa asked, speeding past him to physically block the front door. “What is up with you? You never just drop by. What’s wrong?”

“What’s wrong?” Stiles practically screamed at her, throwing his hands up in emphasis. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong! What’s wrong is I woke up this morning in a universe where I apparently married zombie wolf Peter Hale and he calls me honey! And BABY! So clearly there’s been some sort of supernatural voodoo cast on me, and I need a shaman or a werewolf or a wizard right the fuck now so I can get back to my real life!”

“Sweetie,” Melissa soothed, pulling his arms to her with a gentle touch, “I think something may be wrong with you, but I don’t think it’s magical. Would you sit down for a minute so I can look you over?”

“Of course it’s magic!” Stiles said, voice still on the wrong side of panicked. “I’m 18 years old! I should still be in high school, not shacking up with a guy over twice my age!”

“I’m calling your father,” Melissa said, eyeing him worriedly while she pulled out her phone. “Please, just sit down so we can figure out what’s going on. Please?” she asked again when Stiles made no move to follow her instructions.

“Can you call Scott, too?” Stiles asked, letting out a huge breath as he flopped down on the couch, rubbing at his temples. “And ask him to call Deaton. I think I’m going to need all the help I can get.”

She took a few minutes on the phone, walking into the kitchen so she was out of earshot. Stiles tapped his feet on the floor, wondering how long it would be before the cavalry arrived. He needed everyone, Lydia, Derek, hell, he’d even take help from Coach right now if it meant he could get home sooner. Had this universe’s Stiles been transported into his life? If so, the pack was going to be in for a real surprise once he started insisting he’s married to pedo-wolf.

“He’ll be here soon,” Melissa assured him, heading to the hall closet and returning with her spare medical bag. “Do you mind if I examine you while we wait?” she asked, pulling out her stethoscope and flashlight.

“Dad?” he asked, allowing Melissa to listen to his chest and check his pupillary response. “Is Scott coming too?”

“Scott can’t get away from work for a few hours, and it would take him a while to get here, so maybe later on,” Melissa said softly, instructing him on when to breathe and then taking his pulse.

“What’s a while? He doesn’t live here anymore?” Stiles asked, eyeing Melissa speculatively as she pulled out her blood pressure cuff and secured it to his arm.

Melissa held up her finger to her lips, telling Stiles to be quiet while she listened to his pulse. “He’s living about an hour from here with Amelia.”

“Who’s Amelia?” Stiles asked, dodging Melissa’s hands when she tried to reach for his face.

“His fiancée,” she answered easily, like this should have been common knowledge. “You haven’t met her, though. Now hold still,” Melissa said a bit tersely, patting Stiles’ cheeks with the pads of her thumbs before moving them methodically up the sides of his face to his forehead.

“Oww,” Stiles said, wincing when she got to a particularly tender spot. “Quit it! I’m fine!”

“You are not fine,” Stiles’ father said, stepping through the front door. “If you were fine, Peter wouldn’t have called me in hysterics when the gym called and told him you hadn’t made it to work.”

“Look, Dad,” Stiles started, getting off the couch to grip his father’s arm. “I know this is going to sound crazy, but I am not from here, okay? In my world, I am 18 and should probably be in Econ mouthing off to Coach right now,” he said, eyeing the clock on the wall. “I think magic brought me to an alternate reality.”

He took a moment to look his father over, noticing immediately that while older and grayer, John Stilinski looked much the same as usual, still imposing but kind, still powerful. Stiles silently congratulated himself on keeping his father healthy, at least in this universe, though Melissa might deserve some credit as well.

John looked at his son skeptically, eyebrows rising as he flicked his eyes over to his wife. “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary?” he asked, forehead crinkling in worry.

“I think he might have a little bruising on his forehead, but all his vitals are fine,” Melissa assured him, allowing her husband a small smile. “We should definitely bring him in for tests though.”

“No, no, no,” Stiles said, backing away from the pair of them, “I’m fine, I don’t need any tests. What I need is a spell or a ritual or a shiny rock or something that will send me home.”

“I get that you think there’s no way this is your life,” John said, standing his ground and allowing Stiles the space he so clearly needed, “this certainly isn’t how any of us expected our lives to end up. But don’t you think it would be a good idea to rule out any natural causes before we start delving into the supernatural ones? That kind of research could take weeks.”

Stiles could see the logic in that. Medicine had procedures, the scientific method, it would be easy to rule out traumatic brain injury. “I don’t even remember hitting my head,” he insisted, bravado faltering when he realized the unsettling look on his father’s face wasn’t concern, it was fear. John wasn’t humoring Stiles and his jump-to-conclusions thought process, he was afraid for him.

It took him a minute, but Stiles did eventually put it together. His father looked like something he had been dreading for a long time had finally come to pass. John assumed his son was falling victim to the same disease that took his wife. Stiles’ mother, that was, Stiles mentally corrected himself. Melissa was his father’s wife now… here at least.

“What kind of tests are we talking about?” Stiles asked, looking to Melissa for an answer.

“A CT, maybe an MRI if they need more information. Blood and urine tests, monitoring,” she said, knowing full well Stiles’ feelings about needles.

“I can’t go in one of those machines again,” Stiles said quickly, eyes widening as his thoughts flicked back to the last time his father thought he was ill. “I won’t do it.”

“What if we sedate you?” Melissa asked thoughtfully, looking to John for a show of support. “We have to make sure that you don’t have any internal bleeding. It could be nothing, but it could be really dangerous.”

“Please, son?” John asked, reaching out to take his wrist.

Stiles could hear a slight quaver in his voice, and swallowed hard. “Yeah, okay,” he agreed, fighting down the nausea that threatened to overcome him. He allowed his father to lead him and Melissa to his cruiser and set off for Beacon Hills Memorial.

“Could you get that?” John asked as his phone started to ring.

Melissa picked it up, eyes flicking back to Stiles as she answered. “Hi, Peter. We’re taking him to the hospital now. I’m not sure. Okay, be careful… no seriously, keep it under 90 or I’ll kick your ass. Okay, bye.”

“He’s coming?” Stiles asked. He could feel the way his pulse started to race at the thought. Melissa and his dad he could deal with, an overbearing husband? He cringed. Stiles didn’t even know how to look at the man. How did you talk to someone whose love repulsed you?

“He’ll meet us at the hospital,” Melissa replied, reaching out to take John’s hand and kiss his knuckles. “He’s worried sick.”

It was sweet, Stiles thought. He wondered when his father had finally gotten the nerve to ask Melissa out. Regardless, he was happy there was someone around to take care of his dad since he apparently lived several hours away. Why had he moved? What was going on with the pack? What the fuck was going on with him and Peter? He had so many unanswered questions that were now taking a backseat to his health.

Stiles was admitted quickly, and brought to his own room. He picked at a loose string on his hospital gown as the doctors spoke to his father, getting a medical history that Stiles clearly didn’t remember.

“Have you done any genetic testing?” the doctor asked, peeking over at Stiles every once in a while like he was embarrassed for him.

“We were going to last time he was in the hospital…” John trailed off, wondering how much Stiles remembered of that time. “But we had to leave abruptly.”

Unfortunately, Stiles’ memory did go back that far. At least, he was pretty sure his dad was referring to the last time they tried to give him an MRI and the Nogitsune had escaped, returning only to brutally savage the hospital and murder several dozen people.

He took a deep breath, trying to bury the memory of all the blood and how powerful he had felt, letting the Oni do his bidding. Allison had died not long after that. The aftermath had been the lowest point in his life, and he wished he could put it all behind him, but it was still too fresh. This universe’s Stiles would probably be over it by now, assuming he had an accurate guess to his age, but at 18, the real Stiles was still struggling with it daily.

“Well, I’d like to run his blood for the strongest risk and determination genes, just to rule out his mother’s illness. I don’t think that’s what we’re looking at here, as the memory loss has come on quite abruptly, but it will be a good place to start. While we’re doing that we can get his CT and other tests done,” the doctor said, hands in his pockets, cool and professional.

“You’re going to have to sedate him for the tests,” John said, smiling softly at Stiles. “He’s a bit claustrophobic.”

“If by claustrophobic you mean can’t sit still and will run screaming from needles and small places, then yes, you’re correct,” Stiles chimed in, wanting the pair to remember he was still in the room, still an adult capable of making his own decisions.

“You don’t seem to be fidgeting now,” the doctor noted, looking Stiles up and down.

Stiles opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again in surprise. The doctor was right. He wasn’t shaking, or tapping his feet. He had even stopped fiddling with the string on his gown. Stiles didn’t know how or why it had happened, but despite the stressful and unfamiliar situation he had found himself in, he wasn’t getting worked up. An eerie calm was keeping him at a somewhat even keel. Did they have better meds in this universe? Was he born without ADD?

He wasn’t sure when or how, but his body seemed to be in much better control of itself than usual. Perhaps he had grown out of the habit, or maybe all that time spent dancing really had helped him to work off all his excess nervous energy. No matter how it had come about, Stiles was thankful. His pulse was fast, but he was in control.

Of course, that’s when Peter Hale decided to enter the room.


	3. Where Do You Go with Your Broken Heart in Tow?

“Stiles?” Peter questioned, the soles of his expensive loafers skidding on the linoleum floor.  “Are you alright?”

Stiles took a beat to take in the view.  Peter was older, but still unfairly attractive.  His chest was just as broad and muscular as ever, tapering down to the trim vee of his waist, which was cinched tightly by a leather belt.  He wore a deep blue button down, carefully tucked into gray twill pants, and he was as beautiful as Stiles remembered, with just a faint smattering of grey hairs at the temples.  His face was clean shaven, showing off the dip in his cleft chin and the curve of his jaw.  Stiles took a moment to mentally pat himself on the back for landing the guy.  Surely it had taken some begging on his part before Peter had bothered to sleep with him.

“Fine,” Stiles said meekly, wondering where his voice had gone.  “I’m fine,” he coughed, attempting to clear his throat, but not finding any more volume than he already had.  “No need to panic.”

“I’ll decide if there’s need to panic,” Peter said quickly.  “What’s going on… Doctor Stevens?” he asked, turning to the man in the white coat and reading his name tag.  

“Who are you?” the doctor asked, eyeing Peter skeptically.  “I can’t give out medical information unless you’re family.

“I’m his husband,” Peter said sharply, pointing to the ring on Stiles’ finger.  Stiles had almost forgotten it was there, but now that he had been reminded, the questions just started pouring back in.  How had this happened?  Why were they married?  

“I’m also listed as his next of kin and emergency contact,” Peter added, making it clear that he could hear anything the doctor had to say.  “So I’ll ask again, what happened?”

“How about you tell me what happened first?” Stiles shouted, set off by Peter’s haughty, entitled tone.  What right did Peter have to the intimate details of his life if he couldn’t even remember being intimate with the man?  “You’re not hearing a single word about me until you tell me how we ended up married.  So start talking.”

“Why don’t we give them some privacy?” John asked, motioning toward the door.  Doctor Stevens followed him out and closed the door behind him, but not before casting a perturbed glance between the two men like he was about to miss the dramatic ending of his favorite soap opera.

“What’s the last thing you remember?” Peter asked with a sigh, pulling a visitor’s chair over to the side of Stiles’ bed and sitting down heavily.  He looked tired, weary in a way Stiles had never seen before.  Maybe that’s what happened when you loved someone.  You were constantly exhausted by the weight of the emotion.  

“The Nogitsune,” Stiles said quietly, hoping no one was listening at the door.  “Allison… I was 18,” he finished, voice barely above a whisper.

“That’s actually right around when we got together,” Peter said, leaning back in the chair and surveying his husband carefully, looking for any differences, no matter how remote, that would support Stiles’ supernatural universe jumping theories.

“When I was 18!” Stiles said loudly, not only shocked that he had managed to nab the werewolf with his 18-year-old body, but also that the Sheriff hadn’t murdered them both.

“Thereabouts,” Peter said, clear blue eyes flicking to Stiles’ face as he wiggled his wedding ring with his thumb.

“Tell me everything,” Stiles said, leaning back against the useless pillows on his hospital bed.  If he was going to be treated like an invalid, he might as well play the part.  “Start from the beginning.”

“It’s a long story, Stiles,” Peter said, rubbing a hand across his forehead, “and we need to get your tests done before you bleed to death.”

“Well you guys aren’t getting a look at my brain until I hear it, so you better get started,” Stiles said, narrowing his eyes at Peter.

Peter sucked in a deep breath and let it out slowly, allowing his eyes to fall closed as he brought up the memory of their last night in Beacon Hills.

“It was late.  I was up reading in bed,” he said, twisting his lip like he could still remember what page he was on.  “I heard a tapping on the window of my bedroom, and I looked up to see you there.  It was pouring rain, you were drenched, but you were also covered in blood.  I didn’t know whose it was, but you were leaving bloody little finger smears on the glass, crouched down on the fire escape, clutching your bloodsoaked baseball bat in one fist.  I was pretty sure you were crying, but your face was so wet I couldn’t really tell where the rain ended and the tears began.  I opened the window to let you in and the first thing out of your mouth was, ‘could you lend me some money?  I need to get out of here.’”

Stiles sucked in a breath, wondering what had possessed him to try to skip town.  Murder would do it, but it wasn’t like he hadn’t killed anyone before, he was sorry to admit.  “What—” he started, sitting up straight on the bed.

“No interruptions,” Peter cut him off, opening one eye to peer at his husband.  He pointed one finger back at the bed until Stiles laid back down, and then carried on speaking.  Stiles didn’t interrupt him again, just fell into the soft cadence of Peter’s voice as he monologued.

“I didn’t ask where you were going, I just said you didn’t need money, I was coming with you instead.  We didn’t even stop back at your house.  I filled a duffel with clothes enough for the both of us and we hit the road.  We didn’t stop driving until the sun came up.  You fell asleep in the front seat of my car, body curled in toward me, face tilted up toward the heat of the air vent and I thought… I could love you.  I could… I could love this man.”

Stiles bit his bottom lip.  It sounded almost sweet, the way Peter said it, but then Stiles reminded himself that he had been 18 at the time.  Maybe Peter had taken advantage.  He needed more information.

“I didn’t ask whose blood it was.  We didn’t talk much.  I drove and you napped.  You didn’t bring it up until the next day when you insisted we get the car cleaned and burn your clothes.  We used the bat as kindling.  Your face was cold, resolved.  You didn’t cry.”

Peter sounded almost proud.  Stiles was acutely, almost painfully interested in learning why.  He licked his lips, wanting to ask a question, but bit his tongue, allowing Peter to continue.  

“Thankfully, covering up murders was a specialty of mine.  I was infinitely curious, but I didn’t dare ask.  I could smell that it was a wolf, and there was a bit of Isaac’s blood lingering underneath the larger stains of someone else’s, but you never offered up the information.  I _did_ ask where we were going, and you said, ‘anywhere.’

“‘Anywhere’ turned out to be a cabin off the beach, way down south.  We stayed there for a few days.  You didn’t speak much, but on the third night, you climbed into my bed and took your clothes off.”

The air caught in Stiles’ throat as he listened.  He didn’t… he _couldn’t_ have.   Except it sounded exactly like something Stiles would do, dive in without checking the water first.  

“You were beautiful, all pale and milky white in the moonlight.  I couldn’t resist.  I didn’t even try to.  You came to me.  I couldn’t have denied you if I wanted to.  You needed something, and I gave you everything I had.”

Peter sounded wistful, but happy, like it was a pleasant memory.  Stiles wished he could remember it.  It would have been his first time.  Peter would have known that, probably would have been able to smell it.  And yet, Stiles had offered up his virginity to the older man, apparently on a silver platter.  He wasn’t surprised that Peter had taken the opportunity when it fell in his lap, he only wondered if Peter had cared about him at all at that point.  But hadn’t he just told Stiles so?  Hadn’t Peter just said he thought he could love him?  Stiles’ thoughts started to whir in circles as Peter continued his tale.  

“And just like that, we were together.  I still had no idea what had happened back in Beacon Hills.  You never called your father.  I knew the blood couldn’t have been his, but still, the fact that you never answered your phone worried me.  It died, and you never charged it.  It just ceased to matter.  Nothing else mattered.  Eventually, you told me a bit of what had happened, muttered into my bare chest more like.  Then you smiled and said we needed to find an apartment.

“You got a job at a coffee shop.  I took on a few new clients.  Months passed and we just… lived.  We kept it simple.  We never bought a TV.  You never bought another laptop.  You just sat in my lap every night, curled up as I read to you.  After a while, you decided to study physiology at the local college.  You learned every kind of movement there was; karate, kickboxing, dance, pilates, MMA, yoga.  You rented space in a studio and started teaching classes.  You made sure you would never need your bat ever again.”

Stiles eyebrows raised.  It kind of made sense, now that it was explained to him, he wasn’t just a dancer, he was a fitness instructor.  Not something he would have chosen for himself, but now that it had been suggested, it seemed to fit.  His body was calm because he _used_ it.  He did yoga, he focused his energy into teaching others how to protect themselves.  It felt good knowing he had excelled at something and was able to make a difference in other people’s lives.  He only wished he remembered how it felt, to be in control like that… wondered if he could take Peter down now if he tried.  

“A year later, you called home.  Your father was fine.  He had been looking for you, but no one had any idea where you had gone, even if they suspected you had left with me.  You told him that you were fine.  Things were good, you just needed to get away.  Your friends had abandoned you and you needed space.  You asked him to come visit, said he had a wedding to attend.”

Stiles nearly choked on his own spit.  It was his idea?  What the fuck had he been thinking, marrying Peter before he was 20?  How had he ever been so sure?  Maybe it was really obvious to this world’s Stiles… how much Peter cared for him.  Maybe he hadn’t had any doubts about their relationship.  Stiles wondered what that felt like.

“That was the first I had heard of it.  I raised my eyebrows at you while you explained the situation to your father and you just smirked.  You knew you had me.  You had me the moment you tapped on my window with one bloody finger, rain-soaked and desperate.  I would have done anything for you just then.  I would have done anything for you before that too, even if I hadn’t recognized the impulse yet.  I was sure you knew.  You probably knew before I did, that you were my mate.  I never thought to ask.  I just bought you a ring and took you to city hall.  There had never been any other option for me.”

Mate?  Had Peter really just used the word ‘mate?’  Stiles had done his research, and he was pretty sure werewolf mates were just a myth.  Even if they weren’t, all the stories made it very clear that only Alpha wolves could truly mate with their partners.  Stiles opened his mouth to ask when Peter had become an Alpha, but the man could sense it, even with his eyes closed, and held up a finger.  

Peter’s eyes flashed open, and Stiles startled, hopping backward on his bed away from Peter a few inches.  Peter raised his eyebrows and finished his story.

“I braved your father’s terrifying glare, let him sucker punch me in the jaw, pummel me to the ground.  I would have done anything, endured anything to have you.  Then suddenly, you were my husband.  And life was bliss.”  He stood up, stretching his long legs out as he practically loomed over Stiles like an angry schoolmarm.  Stiles fought the urge to shy away.  

“I didn’t have a care in the world until you woke up yesterday and ran from the life that we built together.  So would you please, for the love of all that is holy, explain to me what happened?”  Peter’s voice rose, color coming to his cheeks as he finally lost his cool.  “Please, using as few words as possible, explain to me exactly why my husband of ten years ran screaming from me this morning?”

Stiles’ mouth dropped open.  He couldn’t think of a single thing to say.  The English language just ceased to exist for a few minutes while his mouth opened and closed like a fish.  

“Honestly, Stiles,” Peter said, perching himself on the side of the bed on one hip and draping the top half of his body over Stiles’ ankles.  “Did you think I wouldn’t help you?  That I would have hurt you?  I couldn’t.  I wouldn’t.  You’re my mate.  My family.  You’re my everything.”

Peter’s words were soft, deliberate.  Stiles could barely believe they were coming out of the wolf’s mouth.  Where was the psychotic Alpha Stiles had lit on fire just a year and a half ago?  How had that beast turned into this?  The person in front of him was caring, committed, dare he say… in love?

Peter was looking at him, eyes pleading, looking for some semblance of recognition.  He found none.  Stiles didn’t believe him.  And really, how could he?  If he thought back to all those years ago, before Stiles had come to him, needing to start a new life, _that_ Stiles wouldn’t believe him for a minute.  

The Stiles in front of him was young, but he wasn’t terrified of Peter anymore.  Peter startled a bit when he realized that this Stiles, one who believed he was 18, was the man Peter had fallen in love with.  Stiles wasn’t intimidated by him anymore, not because Peter wasn’t scary, but because he had already seen worse.  He had already _been_ worse.  None of Stiles’ friends had been able to relate.  They were scarcely able to look at him after Allison died.  

18-year-old Stiles looked at himself and saw a nightmare staring back.  In Stiles’ eyes, Peter was probably just another lost soul looking for a redemption arc.  They had ended up finding happiness together, but Stiles had no memory of it.  It was gone, wiped clean like the condensation on the mirror that morning after Peter took his shower… when he called goodbye to his husband, not knowing the man he loved was already gone.  

“I didn’t think that,” Stiles said, answering the question it felt like Peter had asked an hour ago.  “I didn’t think at all, I panicked.  And for the record,” he went on, pulling his legs up to his chest to get them away from Peter’s body, “I didn’t scream, I just ran _and_ I still think this is some sort of spell… but if getting some tests done means Dad won’t worry so much about me getting sick like my mom did, I’ll suffer through.”

“I could kill you, you know,” Peter said, getting off the bed and taking a step back, not wanting to make Stiles any more uncomfortable than he already was.  Stiles’ eyes widened.  _This_ was more of what he expected to hear from Peter, death threats.  “I called the gym and they said you _did_ take a bad hit last night.  You didn’t say a word yesterday.  We were home together all night!  You had every opportunity to tell me you had gotten hurt.  I’m still waiting to hear back from the student you were sparring with to hear exactly what happened.”

“Sparring?” Stiles asked, wondering what his alter ego was getting up to.

“Last night was Japanese martial arts.  You were hit with a bō,” Peter caught Stiles’ confusion and explained further.  “A long staff, usually made out of bamboo.”

“I _teach_ that?” Stiles asked, looking quizzical.  

“Among other things,” Peter replied, looking to the ceiling in barely disguised frustration.  “So you see my problem.  Whether or not you think you’ve been brought here by magic, _my_ Stiles suffered an injury yesterday, which he failed to mention, and he could be bleeding into his brain.  So you’ll forgive me if I’m getting a bit anxious to get you to CT.  You are mine to protect, and you _have_ to allow me to do so.”

Stiles stared, flabbergasted by the implications.  Peter was right.  Even if he had been transported into this older Stiles’ body, if the body had been injured, it should be treated.  If for no other reason than he needed to be alive long enough to figure out how to get home.  

Suddenly, Stiles’ vision swam and he felt sick.  It was lucky Peter had stepped away from the bed, because Stiles leaned over the side and promptly vomited onto the floor.  Maybe he _had_ hurt himself.  He was confused by his situation, but there was no reason he should be feeling so foggy and nauseated… unless it had been a spell.  He could have been poisoned… wolfsbane, mistletoe… it could have been any number of things.  

“I’m going to get Doctor Stevens,” Peter said, clipping his words sharply as he strode out of the room.  

Once Stiles gave his consent, they prepped him for his tests.  Stiles was asked to remove his wedding ring for the MRI.  He twisted the metal off his finger and leaned over to place it on the bedside table, but Peter stepped forward, holding out his palm.  “I’ll hold on to that, if you don’t mind,” he said, waiting until Stiles placed the ring in his hand.  He picked it up carefully and then slipped it down his thumb.  Peter’s face was blank, but forcibly so, like he was trying very hard to hold back his emotions.  Stiles gave him some privacy by looking away.

Stiles was put under anesthesia and taken to CT.  The procedure was short, but it took a while for him to come back around.  His mouth was dry, and the voices in the room were muffled, but he could still make out what they were saying.  Keeping his eyes closed, Stiles listened to Peter and his father talk, hoping the change in his breathing wouldn’t give him away.  

“I know this is hard for you, but it’s hard for him too, you’re just going to have to be patient,” John said, the rustling of fabric telling Stiles that his dad was patting Peter’s arm.  

“I _am_ being patient, it’s just a lot to take in,” Peter said, apparently distracted enough to miss the fact that Stiles was already awake.  “I just lost my husband.  He doesn’t know me, and he definitely doesn’t love me.”

“He will,” John comforted, tone soft and sure.  “With any luck, Stiles’ memory will come back after surgery and you guys will be right as rain.”

“He took off the ring like it meant nothing,” Peter said like he hadn’t heard a word the Sheriff had said.  “Ten years, gone, and for what?  He’s usually so good about wearing his helmet in class.  I just don’t understand what happened.”

“We’ll figure it out,” John said, hoping he wasn’t making an empty promise.  “You’ll get him back and you can propose all over again if you want.  Hell, take him for an anniversary trip.  I bet he’d love that.”

“If we make it that far,” Peter answered, jumping to the worst case scenario.  “What if the amnesia is permanent?  He’ll never remember what we had.  He could leave, meet someone else.  Ask for a divorce.”

“You made him fall in love with you once before,” John told him, smile audible.  “I’m sure you could figure out how to do it again.”

“That’s just the thing,” Peter said, sounding wistful, “I didn’t _do_ anything.”

“Yes you did,” John argued, knowing full well how Peter had cared for and protected his son for the years before they reconnected.  “He needs you.  He just doesn’t know it yet.”

Doctor Stevens walked in before Peter had a chance to reply, the click of the door giving Stiles an excuse to pretend to wake.  “How are we doing?”

“Just peachy,” Stiles croaked, opening his eyes and smirking at the three other men.  “Hit me, Doc.  What’s the good news?”

“The good news,” Doctor Stevens said, flipping through Stiles’ chart, “is that you don’t exhibit any markers or signs for dementia or Alzheimer's and there’s no sign of deterioration on your scans.  So we can rule out any degenerative disease or condition.”

John let out a sigh of relief.  His knees went out from under him and he caught himself on the edge of Stiles’ bed, taking a seat next to his son’s legs.  

“And the bad news?” Peter asked, terse with stress.  

“The bad news is that your husband suffered a traumatic brain injury.”  He strode over to the wall and flicked on the light board, pinning up Stiles’ brain scan.  “You were hit with something here,” he said, pointing at the top left, “causing extensive bleeding.  You have a large subdural hematoma that needs to be evacuated so the swelling will go down and your brain can heal the damage.”

Peter looked to Stiles, eyes wide.  Stiles saw his hand flex open and then clench into a fist, stopping himself from reaching out.  Stiles almost wished he hadn’t.  Not that he was scared, but he kind of thought it might be nice to feel Peter’s hand squeeze his.  Sensing some disruption in the mood, John reached out and patted his son’s ankle.

“A blow to the head usually creates a secondary injury,” Doctor Stevens said, pointing to the lower right side of the scan.  “The brain shifts within the skull away from the source of impact and bangs into it on the other side.  This area will also need time to heal.  You may experience some deficits, slurred speech, confusion, tremors, nausea, and any number of other things.”

“What do we do to stop the bleeding?” John asked, looking to the doctor for an explanation.

“Craniotomy,” Peter said, voice flat with disbelief.  “Right?” he asked the doctor, eyes still locked on the scan.

“Craniectomy, actually,” Doctor Stevens said, pulling the scan back off the board.  “Excessive bleeding and swelling can have terrible effects, including loss of motor function, speech, memory, and other functions, as well as increased intracranial pressure that could damage your eyesight.  Lastly, the loose blood could clot and travel through your body, the worst case scenario being aneurysm or heart attack.”

“How soon can you fix it?” John asked, squeezing down on Stiles’ ankle to an almost painful degree.  

“I want to make sure Stiles understands the procedure, then we could get started right away,” the doctor said, pausing in his explanation to give Stiles a small smile.  “We would need to remove a portion of your skull to expose the brain tissue, then suction out the blood and repair any tissue damage.  The brain is swollen and will need time to heal, so we’ll keep your skull fragment frozen for a few weeks, keeping you under constant monitoring, and then replace it when everything is back to normal.”

“Let me get this straight,” Stiles said, holding up his hand.  “You’re going to take out a big chunk of my skull with a…?”

“Saw,” Peter supplied, lips twisting apologetically.

“With a saw… and then you’re going to poke around inside my BRAIN.  Then I have to wait a few weeks before you can even put it back on?  How many is 'a few weeks?'”

“Normal recovery time is six weeks, barring any complications,” Doctor Stevens supplied.

“So I’m going to be missing a big chunk of my skull for six weeks at the shortest?” Stiles asked, wondering if this was starting to sound crazy to anybody else.  

“You’ll need to be very careful not to damage the exposed dura,” the doctor said, eyeing Stiles warily like he expected him to be a problem patient.

"And after six weeks I’ll have my memory back?”

“We can’t know that for sure,” Doctor Stevens said honestly.  “Every brain injury is different and we can’t promise anything until after you’ve healed fully.  It’s possible, but not definite, and deficits are possible if not likely.  It's actually remarkable that you've stayed conscious this long.”

“So you want me to have brain surgery, which may or may not get you your Stiles back, and you still won’t let me call Deaton and research a magical solution?” Stiles asked, ignoring the fact that the doctor was in the room.  

“Deaton’s dead, Stiles,” Peter said harshly, frustrated that Stiles was being so stubborn.  “And we already talked about this.  We have to make sure your body is safe and functioning.  Then, if you want to spend your recovery time looking for a supernatural explanation, which I’m positive you won’t find, you’ll be free to do so.”

“He’s right son,” John said, looking at Stiles with concern and compassion.  “You need to do this for me and Peter, if not for yourself.  We need to make sure you’re alive.  Whatever happens after that… we’ll get there when we get there.  Alright?”

Stiles looked between Peter and his father, unsure of how close the two really were.  It was just like his dad to take any side but his.  He didn’t care if he sounded bitter, he _was_ bitter.  He wanted to go home.

“Alright, Doc.  Cut me open,” Stiles said eventually, tone mock-cheerful.  

Peter rolled his eyes.


	4. Has Anybody Seen All My Wasted Love?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! I added a few tags as I read through the whole fic for editing. Hopefully none of the new ones cause issues for those of you who had already started reading. If you think I'm missing a tag, please let me know. I'd rather over tag than under tag, I'd like you all to be safe! 
> 
> I'm going to try to post 2-3 chapters a week of this, together or not depending on chapter length. We'll see how that goes! Thanks for following along!

The surgery went well and before Stiles knew it, he was in a recovery room with explicit instructions to not touch his bandages, hit his head on anything, bend over, or exert himself.  Unfortunately, exerting himself seemed to include any and all activities that he would normally have used to pass the time, including but not limited to, walking, reading, exercising, using a computer, or watching television.  

Melissa had called Scott, and his friend had agreed to come by for a visit, despite the fact that he had apparently not seen nor heard from Stiles in a decade.  He had tried asking Peter and his father what had happened between them, but neither of them had any idea.  Stiles had kept that information to himself, and Scott hadn’t told his mother either.  Clearly, something momentous had happened, and no one but Scott, or whoever else had been present, could explain it to him.  

Unable to read or watch TV, Stiles spent most of his time sleeping.  They had him on a variety of painkillers, steroids, and antibiotics that kept him a bit fuzzier than normal, so it wasn’t difficult to doze on and off all day.  Various medical professionals came into his room at all hours, testing his speech and physical control of his body.  Apart from his memory loss and general confusion, and Stiles wasn’t sure if that was a side effect of the surgery, the drugs, or just the amnesia, his body seemed to be alright.  Stiles was hopeful that if he continued to heal quickly, he could leave the hospital sooner than expected.  

Peter had gone back to San Francisco for a few days to check in at his law office and make sure he had wrapped up his open cases sufficiently enough to take a leave of absence.  He had also gone to Stiles’ gym and arranged his medical leave.  Stiles was not surprised that his husband had also hunted down the student who had injured Stiles and gotten him banned from the gym.  Part of him was a bit surprised Peter had used his words instead of violence, but another, smaller part of him was a little turned on by the man fighting for his honor.  Without Peter hovering around, Stiles was painfully bored.  His father had also returned to work, but Melissa peeked in on him on occasion and kept him company during her breaks.  

Later that afternoon, there was a soft knock on his door.  Unable to get out of bed and answer it himself, Stiles called, “come in,” and smiled when he saw Scott’s crooked jaw and floppy hair peek around the edge of the door.  “Hey man, am I glad to see you!” Stiles said, holding out his arms for a hug.

Scott hesitated.  It looked like he really did want a hug, but wasn’t sure if he should take it or not.  

“Come on, Scott,” Stiles said, shaking his arms a little bit.  “It’s just me.”

Scott bit his lip and ran a hand through his hair, which was much longer than Stiles remembered.  

“Look, buddy,” Stiles began, lowering his arms.  “I don’t know what happened between us, but I’m sorry, okay?  Can we just put it behind us and move on?  We’re brothers now.”

“You left, Stiles,” Scott said, not making any move to get any closer.  “It’s been ten years, and I never heard a word from you.  Not one word.  Do you know how long we looked for you?”

“I—I’m sorry,” Stiles stuttered.  Peter had told him as much, but his dad had been so understanding when he turned up, he didn’t want to believe himself capable.  “I really am.  I don’t know what I did, but whatever it was, I’m sure I didn’t mean it.”

“Oh, you meant it,” Scott said, obviously hurt.  “I called and called, and got nothing.  You missed Mom and John’s wedding, and for what?  Some stupid misunderstanding?  You married Peter!  What the hell is wrong with you?”  He was getting worked up and couldn’t stop.  Scott knew Stiles was hurt and that he really didn’t remember what he had done, but his feelings had been bottled up for ten years, and he was primed to explode.  

“After Allison died,” he said, voice barely cracking, “everything was so broken.  I needed you, and you just disappeared!”

Stiles had enough sense to look contrite, but the more he thought about it, the angrier he became.  “Look, Scott,” he said, closing his eyes when a wave of pain swept over him.  “I loved Allison too, and her death was hard on all of us, but I think you’re forgetting what I was going through at the time.  It’s just like you to only focus on yourself.”

“She was _my_ girlfriend!” Scott shouted, high and clear.

“Yeah, and  _I_ killed her!” Stiles yelled back, head pounding.  “Do you have any idea what that’s like!?  To feel the guilt of a someone’s blood on your hands?  Someone you really cared about?  It’s the most painful thing in the world.”

“Two people,” Scott muttered, rolling his eyes at Stiles’ outburst.

“What?” Stiles asked, rubbing his forehead.  “Scott, I’m sorry, I know it’s frustrating, but I don’t remember anything.  So if you’re going to try and hurt my feelings, you’re going to have to use small words and explain exactly _how_  I’m supposed to feel bad.”

“You killed another person,” Scott said, crossing his arms over his chest.  “You bludgeoned a man to death, and then you skipped town!”

“Because you told him to,” Peter growled, appearing in the doorway behind Scott.  Stiles could almost see Scott’s hackles raise at the threat of another wolf.  To Stiles’ surprise, Peter’s eyes flashed red as he continued to stalk forward, growling loud and low.  Assuming nothing during his missing years had caused Scott to lose his True Alpha status, they were both Alphas.  

“Peter, stand down, it’s alright,” Stiles said, holding up his hands in defeat.  

“No, Stiles,” Peter said, heavy puffs of air coming out through his nostrils between words like he was trying not to inhale Scott’s scent.  “He told you to leave, and you went.  It was for your own sanity.  This place was toxic for the both of us.  Scott is just mad at himself because he scared you off when he should have been supporting you.”

“Supporting him?” Scott asked, haughty and incredulous.  “My girlfriend and my best friend had just died!”

Stiles’ breath caught.  So that was what it came down to?  Scott loved Allison more than he loved Stiles.  It wasn’t surprising, really, Scott had always chosen Allison over him, even when they were broken up, it was still Allison first, everyone else second, Stiles never.  

He wondered if it had hurt more the first time Scott kicked him out of his life, or if it was just expected at this point.  It felt like his chest had been hollowed out and lead was put in its place.  Peter’s ear quirked, noticing the hitch in his breathing, and stepped to his side, guarding him.  Stiles was surprised that the warm hand Peter placed on his arm was comforting instead of stifling.  An electrifying zing shot up his spine at the touch.

“ _I_ was your best friend,” he gasped out, clutching the front of his hospital gown with one hand.  “You were mine.  That should have been enough.  Why wasn’t that enough?”

“I don’t know,” Scott said, hanging his head.  “It just wasn’t.”

Silence fell between them.  Stiles’ breathing sounded far too loud in his own ears, as his breaths started coming faster and faster.  

“I think it’s time for you to leave, Scott,” Peter said, eyes still on Stiles.

Scott didn’t reply, and he didn’t meet Stiles’ eyes before leaving, the door swung wide open.  He was gone, and Stiles did not feel better.  The noise coming from the hall was too loud, too close, everything felt so heavy.  

“Stiles, love, it’s alright,” Peter cooed, soft and gentle in his ear, climbing onto Stiles’ hospital bed behind him and settling the man against his chest.  “Deep breaths, slow and even, there you go.”

“Why—” Stiles gasped, more interested in figuring out what was happening than slowing his breaths, “are you—so good—at this?”

“This isn’t my first rodeo, darling,” Peter said, laying a warm, wide palm against his chest and pressing in, somehow easing the pressure.  “We’ve been here before.  Many times.”

It took several minutes, but Stiles was able to calm down, pressed firmly between Peter’s chest and his palm.  Stiles tried not to analyze the feeling too deeply, how warm and safe he felt in Peter’s embrace.  “I’m okay now,” he said, peeling Peter’s palm off his chest.  

“I’m going to go get a nurse,” Peter said, giving Stiles a weak smile as he climbed off the bed and left the room, concerned that Stiles’ monitors hadn’t alerted the nurse’s station to his distress.  

After a thorough check from several members of his medical team, Stiles was alone with Peter again.  The wolf had brought a duffel bag with him, and Stiles wondered whether he was going to try to sleep in his hospital room for the next six weeks or not.  He wasn’t sure he was comfortable with that.  

Stiles needn't have worried though, the bag seemed to be filled with novels.  Stooping over to rifle through the bag, Peter pulled a few out and laid them on the blanket covering Stiles’ legs.  “I took these from your to-read pile,” Peter explained, tapping his finger against two of the titles.  “I also grabbed some that I knew were your more recent favorites, since you have the unique opportunity of reading them all for the first time again.”

“You know I’m not supposed to read, Peter,” Stiles said, sliding down against his pillows, wishing he would sink into the mattress and disappear.

“I thought maybe I would read to you, if you’re up for it,” Peter said, smiling again like Stiles was the light of his life.  “You used to like it, at least.”

“I don’t know,” Stiles said honestly.  His mind was swimming and he still had so many questions.  Maybe Peter would be willing to fill in the blanks for him.  “Would you maybe tell me what happened when we left Beacon Hills?” he asked with a sigh.  “I’d like to know why Scott is so mad at me.”

“I don’t know if I can really give you the information you’re looking for, love,” Peter said, twisting his lips as he thought about what to say next.  “I wasn’t even there.”

“But you know what happened,” Stiles said, telling instead of asking.  He wasn’t sure that kind of approach would work with Peter, but he certainly wasn’t ready to try seducing information out of the man.  

“I know what you told me,” Peter said carefully.  “If you want an accurate account, I could call Derek.”

“What happened?” Stiles asked exasperated and so very confused.  “How did I lose everyone?  Do I really only have you left?”

“Hey,” Peter said, leveling Stiles with a stern look.  “I realize that you don’t actually know this for sure, but we are very happy together, alone and otherwise.”

“I’m not trying to belittle our relationship,” Stiles said, mindful that he was asking Peter a favor and needed to keep him happy.  “But Scott is my brother, and I just don’t see how we could have had a fight bad enough that I would leave and never come back.”

“You do still have friends, for the record,” Peter said, hoping to offer a little comfort.  “We do drinks with some of the other trainers at the gym, and we do a weekly potluck with our neighbors.  The owner of Southside is an older woman who has been asking us for a threesome for the last two years.  She’s… not subtle, but you like her anyway.”

Stiles huffed out a laugh, and again congratulated himself on his future sex life.  “I’m sure I’ll meet them eventually.”

“You’re not still looking for a supernatural escape from this life?” Peter asked, honestly curious if Stiles was ever going to accept the fact that they were married.  

“I’m too tired,” Stiles said, not sure if he even believed he had traveled between universes anymore.  As odd as it was, when he felt Peter’s touch on his skin, it almost felt right, like electricity and comfort at the same time.  At the very least, he was sure that _this_ body was completely comfortable, if not excited to be with Peter Hale.  Everything else would have to be figured out later.  “Please just… explain?  As best as you can.”

“Fine,” Peter said, stacking the books back up and returning them to the bag.  “But keep your eyes closed.  You need to rest, especially after all that excitement earlier.”

“Yes, dear,” Stiles teased, smirking.  Peter’s face fell.  “I—I’m sorry… I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” Peter said quickly, schooling his features.  “Just maybe lay off the pet names until you actually mean them.  Otherwise, it’s just… too hard to remember you’re not who I think you are.”

“I really am sorry,” Stiles said, wishing he didn’t have to reach so far to touch Peter.  Lunging off the hospital bed would look a little ridiculous, and would give Peter the opportunity to reject him.  That was something Stiles just didn’t need to deal with.

“It’s fine,” Peter replied with a sigh.  “Ready for your story?  It’s a short one this time.”

“Yes, please,” Stiles said, nodding.  Peter pointed at his pillows, and Stiles laid down obligingly and closed his eyes.

“Like I said, I don’t have any of the details, because I wasn’t there, but this is what I know.  There was a rogue Omega loose in the woods, and he was edging closer and closer to Hale land.  It wasn’t long after Allison had died, and I think everyone was feeling a bit reckless.  They hadn’t wanted you to tag along, you were still so pale and exhausted after the Nogitsune, but you showed up on their hunt anyway.  Derek, Scott, and Isaac were racing through the preserve, I assume Lydia wasn’t there, as she probably couldn’t have kept up,” Peter mused, filling in his lack of knowledge with personal speculation.

“You caught up to them near that rock where Allison and Scott used to leave messages, I think, and the Omega had Isaac cornered, right up against the edge of the cliff.  Derek and Scott were trying to help, but he was too close to the edge and the rocks were starting to crumble.  The Omega got a good swipe in, and Isaac tumbled over.  The other two climbed down to check if he was alive, and you… you saw red.

“I don’t know how you did it, I think you were barely half alive at that point.  Maybe some of the Nogitsune’s power carried over, maybe you were just too angry, emotions too raw.  It’s entirely possible you had entered a fugue state and didn’t know what you were doing, but you overpowered the Omega.  By the time Derek and Scott got back up to you with Isaac’s body, the Omega was a pile of blood and bone fragments, seeping viscera into the forest floor.”

As horrified as Stiles was, he had to admit, Peter was an excellent story teller.  He really knew how to paint a picture.  Stiles felt nauseated.  The back of his neck and his jaw had started to ache.  Perhaps his post-surgery body wasn’t ready for much talking.

“Isaac’s body?” Stiles asked, mind snapping back to the last thing Peter had said.  He had gotten so caught up in the story he hadn’t even processed Peter’s words properly.  “You mean…” He could barely say the words.  No wonder Scott was furious with him.  He hadn’t just been dealing with Allison’s death, he had been dealing with Isaac’s death as well, and must have blamed Stiles for them both.  It was Isaac that Scott had considered his best friend, not Allison.  Not him.  That hurt more than Stiles thought it should have, having happened decades ago at this point.  To him, the wound was fresh.  He’d been replaced.

“He died,” Peter filled in gently, like this was usually the moment when Stiles started to cry.  “Broken neck or spine I think, I’m not positive.  You never said.”

Stiles stared straight ahead for a full minute, trying to let it sink in.  For some reason, his mind refused to accept it.  The fact that Isaac was dead before 18, the same as Allison?  It just didn’t compute.  Stiles couldn’t make sense of it, so he shook his head and looked back to Peter, telling himself it would feel real later, when the shock had worn off.  For now, he needed more information.  “What happened next?”

“You were still whacking at what was left of the Omega, spraying blood everywhere.  Scott pulled you off the body, tried to get you to stop.  I think you might have hit him with the bat once or twice, too, before you realized what had happened.  Derek and Scott were devastated.  They laid Isaac’s body at your feet and you didn’t even react.  I’m guessing they weren’t sure you were all there.  Derek told you to get out of there, that they would take care of the bodies.  Scott sucker punched you, shouted that it was all your fault.  Everyone was dead and he couldn’t take it anymore, didn’t want to look at you.  He told you to stay the fuck away from him, that you never liked Isaac anyway and probably didn’t even care that he was dead.

“You took them literally.  Something in you snapped.  There were only bad memories and dead bodies left for you in Beacon Hills, and you wanted out.  After Scott had said those things to you, you were completely alone.  I wanted to kill him when you finally told me what had happened.  I don’t know what they expected.  You went through a serious trauma, and no one thought to give you any help.  I don’t think you’d slept in days, you were having intense, vivid nightmares.  You were drowning in guilt, and Scott thought it would be a good idea to pile on top of that?

“I think even your father didn’t handle things properly, though he’s tried to make up for it since.  None of them know what it’s like, to feel out of control, like a prisoner in your own body.  I think you knew I wouldn’t judge you… and you were right.  There was nothing you could have done that would have scared me off, and I think that helped you, to know someone wouldn’t leave when the going got tough.  

“I made vows, Stiles,” Peter continued, and Stiles couldn’t bear to miss the expression on the man’s face.  He squinted through mostly closed lids, and saw Peter leaning his chin on his clasped hands, fiddling with Stiles’ wedding ring where it sat on his thumb.  Stiles’ fingers itched to take it back, to settle it on the pale stripe of skin on his ring finger, but he couldn’t ask for it.  It wouldn’t be right to lead Peter on like that, not when he had no idea if he planned on honoring their marriage.  Even still, he felt incomplete without that little strip of metal on his hand.  He’d already caught himself rubbing at the slightly callused skin where his ring would usually sit.

“Thank you,” Stiles said eventually, taking a deep breath as he gathered the wherewithal to sit back up.  

“For marrying you?” Peter asked, eyes lifting to Stiles’ as he heard the sheets shift.  

“For telling me what happened.  I think I can see why he’s mad now.”

“You may feel like he was justified in blaming you, but _please_ believe that it was not your fault,” Peter said, moving his chair a bit closer to Stiles’ bedside.  “That Omega killed your friend and you had every right to take matters into your own hands.  What Scott is blaming you for was not in your control.  You did not kill Allison and you absolutely did not kill Isaac.  He may have been grieving, but so were you.  No one has the right to blame the victim.”

Stiles remained silent, taking in Peter’s words.  They sounded sincere.  Everything Peter had said since he woke up in this new world was sincere.  It was going to take some getting used to, this faith in Peter’s truthfulness.  

“You were probably in the worst shape of your life, and Scott should have helped you.  He was your Alpha.  He should have protected you as pack.  Derek should have known better, too.  It was partially my fault.  I should have taught them better, but I didn’t think I needed to explain to someone how to treat their own family.”

“Your family left you for dead when you were in a coma,” Stiles supplied, wondering when he had decided to be on Peter’s side.  Maybe they were kindred in some way that he hadn’t yet realized.  “You didn’t exactly have a great frame of reference.”

Peter chuckled darkly, nodding.  “That’s true.”  He was quiet for a moment, deep in thought.  “Pack is forever.  I don’t know how or why it was so easy for the rest of them to abandon each other.  Jackson skipped town, Erica and Boyd tried to find a new pack, Scott shut you out when you needed him the most.  I can’t even fathom doing that.  I couldn’t leave you now, even if you wanted to leave me.”

“But we’re mates, right?” Stiles asked, mouth quirking a bit as he pondered the details of how that bonding occurred.  “And you’re an Alpha now.  Care to explain how that happened?”

“I think that’s a story for another time,” Peter said, smiling softly.  “How about you lay back down and I read you a bit from _The Hobbit_ , hmm?”

“What else you got in there?” Stiles asked, peering over the edge of the bed at the duffel bag.

“ _Hitchhiker's Guide_ , _Ender’s Game_ , and a few saucy looking romance novels I found on your Kindle,” Peter teased, winking at his husband.  

“Oh?” Stiles asked, intrigued but wary.  He was pretty sure he wouldn’t be able to hide an erection from the wolf, and Peter’s voice was like warm honey.

“I think maybe we should save those for when we know each other a bit better,” Peter said sensibly.  “I skimmed one earlier and it was quite… erotic.”

“I’ll take _The Hobbit_ then,” Stiles said, punching his pillow a bit until it was the right shape.  “That should put me right to sleep.”

“As you wish,” Peter said, pulling out the right book and opening it to the first page.  

“You got _The Princess Bride_ in there?” Stiles asked, smiling into his pillow.

“I do actually,” Peter replied.  “Want that one instead?”

“Maybe next time,” Stiles mumbled sleepily.


	5. The Trouble with Dreams is They Never Die

_The cabin creaked.  A cold wind blew through the tiny cracks between the paneled walls.  Peter could hear the windows rattle as the wind whistled through the nearby pine trees, spindly branches whipping back and forth like ribbons tied to an oscillating fan.  He contemplated venturing the cold outside to gather some firewood, but his nest of thin, scratchy blankets was already as warm as he could get it, and he didn’t relish the thought of disturbing the small cocoon of heat he had created.  He did worry that Stiles wouldn’t be warm enough though, and groaned, tensing himself to leave the bedroom and find his boots.  He wished, not for the first time, that he had the ability to fully shift and sprout his own fur coat.  Peter was just looking around the room for a thicker pair of socks when a soft voice called out through the door._

_“Peter?” Stiles asked, pushing the door open with one finger, eyebrows raised in askance.  “Can I come in?”_

_“Are you cold?” Peter asked, sitting up fully.  The blanket fell from around his shoulders, revealing a tan chest and peaked nipples.  “I was worried you might be.  Want me to go get some more firewood?”_

_“Or I could just sleep with you?” Stiles asked, standing tall and unafraid._

_“If you like,” Peter said, sliding over against the wall to make room for him.  The cabin only had a few twin beds.  He hoped Stiles wouldn’t be offended if their skin happened to touch in the night.  Instead of climbing into bed as Peter expected, Stiles took a step forward and slipped the thin tee shirt he was wearing up and over his head.  His abdominal muscles seemed to dance under his skin as he stretched his arms up over his head.  Peter stared, transfixed by the trail of hair that led down to his plaid pajama pants.  He turned his face away, fighting a blush._

_Stiles stalked closer, reaching a long arm out and hooking his finger under Peter’s chin.  Peter kept his eyes cast downward, not sure if he was allowed to look, even though Stiles’ body language was clearly asking him to.  Stiles ducked his head until they locked eyes, and slowly, deliberately, slipped the plaid pants down his hips, letting them fall to the floor to pool around his thin, almost delicate looking ankles._

_“Would you…?” Stiles asked, tone soft, but sure._

_“I can’t,” Peter said immediately, even as his heart pounded a tattoo against his ribs.  “You’re too…” he trailed off, not even sure where his own mouth was going with the statement._

_“Too… what?  Young?  Broken?  Dark?  Damaged?” Stiles suggested._

_Peter shook his head, each word sounding more ridiculous to him than the last.  If anyone was damaged, it was Peter.  “You’re not ready,” Peter settled on, knowing the man couldn’t possibly be in the right mindset to make this kind of decision.  “You’re hurt,” he added, hand ghosting over the bruise on his side.  A growl bubbled up in his throat, furious that someone had laid a hand on his—on his what, exactly, Peter wasn’t sure._

_“You’ll be gentle,” Stiles said, in place of a protest against Peter’s statements.  “I know you won’t hurt me.”_

_“How exactly do you know that?” Peter asked, tempted to extend his claws just to show Stiles he should not be underestimated.  But he couldn’t go through with it.  He didn’t want to scare the man, who was already so fragile.  He didn’t want to be seen as a monster this time.  He wanted to be Peter.  Just Peter.  The man, not the wolf._

_“If you wanted to hurt me, you would have done it two years ago, in the parking garage,” Stiles said sensibly._

_Peter bit his lip.  Stiles wasn’t wrong.  He had wanted to bite Stiles then.  He had wanted to bite Stiles all along.  It should never have been Scott he ran into in the woods that night.  Stiles was the right one, the perfect choice.  But Peter had never wanted to hurt him.  He didn’t know what he wanted then, and he wasn’t sure what he wanted now.  There was one overwhelming emotion, though, and it was,_ protect him.  He needs you.

_“You don’t know that,” Peter said, wondering when Stiles had found him out.  He hadn’t thought he was being that obvious.  Surely the boy had been more focused on saving his friends than on sussing out Peter’s internal monologue._

_“I do know that,” Stiles said, lifting his legs to kneel on the edge of the bed.  He leaned over Peter, one hand coming down to rest next to Peter’s ear.  Peter inhaled, taking in the man’s scent.  It was overwhelming, how much Stiles smelled like_ him.   _They had spent days in the confines of his car, and all the clothes in the duffel bag were Peter’s.  Stiles had been rolling in Peter’s scent for days, and it made Peter’s wolf want to whine and bare its throat._

_“I know that you would die before hurting me,” Stiles said, leaning closer until they were practically nose to nose.  “Your wolf thinks I’m pack.”_

How could he possibly know that, _Peter thought, practically keening when Stiles took his silence as permission to straddle his hips, pressing his naked body down hard against Peter’s growing erection._

_“You want to mark me,” Stiles continued, words more pornographic than he realized.  “And I want you to,” he said, picking up Peter’s hands, which were clenched into fists at his sides, and bringing them up to his body.  Stiles wriggled his fingers into Peter’s fists until they opened, and dragged Peter’s arms up to his shoulders, tossing his head back as Peter finally grabbed hold.  Blood-hot palms trailed down his pecs to settle on his hips and Stiles smiled, knowing he had him.  He had Peter, had him exactly where he wanted him._

_Stiles ground his hips down into Peter’s, pulling a broken off groan from the older man’s throat.  Peter hadn’t even gotten his pants off, and he was already moments from coming.  Thinking what a waste that would be, spilling his release into his pajama bottoms instead of rubbing it into Stiles’ skin, Peter hooked his thumbs in his waistband.  Stiles lifted off just enough to free Peter’s erection and reach behind himself to pull the pants the rest of the way down.  They were kicked across the room, and Stiles smiled, enjoying Peter’s growing enthusiasm._

_Much to Peter’s surprise, Stiles moved down his legs a bit until his mouth was hovering over Peter’s length.  The wet heat of it was intoxicating, and Peter could feel himself twitch, trying to get closer to Stiles’ mouth.  His eyebrows furrowed as he came to his senses.  “You don’t have to do that,” he said, voice sounding much too loud in the quiet cabin._

_“I want to,” Stiles said simply, trailing his tongue up the curve of Peter’s dick and swirling it around the head.  “I want to know you.”_

_“You don’t know anything about me,” Peter protested, though half-heartedly.  He didn’t think he could stop himself from taking what Stiles was offering, not now he knew how plush and wet the man’s lips felt on him._

_“What’s funny about this,” Stiles said, finally fitting his soft lips around Peter and dropping his head down, nearly swallowing him entirely.  “Is that you still think you’re the smart one,” he finished, pulling off with a wet pop.  Peter clenched his fists in the thin blanket below him, hissing through his teeth.  He wasn’t going to be able to last.  He was going to embarrass himself in front of this beautiful man.  “I know you,” Stiles continued, pulling off every few passes to speak.  “I know that you regret biting Scott.”_

_Peter couldn’t respond.  His jaw was locked in an attempt to stave off his orgasm and Stiles’ words and touch held him captivated.  The lack of response did nothing to deter Stiles, who continued sucking the head of Peter’s dick, dropping down every so often to swallow him deeper into his throat, massaging the ripples of his foreskin with his tongue._

_“I know you wish it was me that you had turned, not him.”_

_Peter whined.  Stiles’ throat fluttered and convulsed around him, nearly finishing him right then and there.  He spared a brain cell to wonder how Stiles could have gotten so good at this when he was still a virgin, he imagined a toy and many hours spent on PornHub had something to do with it._

_“I know you’re still angry at Derek and Laura for leaving you alone after the fire… that you were hurt enough to kill her.”_

_Peter continued to listen to the younger man’s perfect dissection of his psyche and finally admitted to himself that Stiles was indeed, the smart one.  He wasn’t sure how he missed it before.  Stiles’ brilliance had always been obvious to him, but for a human, he was even more perceptive than the wolves.  Stiles picked up every cue, every hidden, half-aborted motion.  Derek was a fool to let Stiles go.  Peter wouldn’t make that mistake._

_“I knew you would help me when I came to your window,” Stiles whispered, reverently, as he slid his head down again and sucked hard.  Peter would have spent in his mouth had he not grabbed Stiles’ hair and tugged him off._

_“You do not need to thank me for that,” Peter said, eyes narrowing as he sat up, Stiles still weighing down his legs.  “If this is some sort of repayment, you can stop right now,” he finished sharply, crystal blue eyes boring into Stiles’.  “I don’t need that from you.”_

_“I know you don’t,” Stiles said, bringing a hand up to cup Peter’s face in a motion that seemed far too intimate for how little time they had been… together, for lack of a better word.  A thumb caressed his cheek, and Peter shivered, suddenly far less sure of himself.  “I can be grateful and still want to have sex with you because_ I want to _, the two aren’t mutually exclusive.”_

_“Why?” Peter asked, still confused as to how he had found himself in this position, naked, in a cold, windy shack with the lanky teenager who had been mouthing off to him for the last year and a half._

_“Because it’s me and it’s you,” Stiles said, like that was a complete answer.  Peter raised his eyebrows, confused, so Stiles elaborated while he inched forward on Peter’s lap.  “I’m the one.”_

_“The one what?” Peter asked, visions of Harry Potter and Buffy Summers dancing through his head._

_“I’m the one for you,” Stiles said, smirking down at him while he simultaneously reached for Peter’s dick and lined it up with his entrance.  He was just about to slide down onto it when Peter’s brain caught up with his genitals._

_“Wait!” Peter said, grabbing Stiles’ hips to stop him from moving.  “You’re not ready,” he said.  Stiles smirked again, wondering how many more times Peter would say the same three words during this encounter.  “I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”_

_“I’m fine,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes.  He grabbed one of Peter’s hands and brought it behind him, trailing Peter’s fingers through his cleft.  “I stole that fancy lotion out of your bag the last time we stopped.”_

_“How were you so sure we’d be doing this?” Peter asked, taking the opportunity to slide two fingers into Stiles’ heat, testing and teasing in equal measure.  Stiles felt exquisite around him, and all doubt left Peter’s mind.  He would be claiming Stiles now; his life depended on it._

_Stiles threw his head back, exposing that long expanse of mole-dotted throat again.  Peter leaned forward to nibble on his collar bones, still scissoring his fingers.  A gasp escaped Stiles’ mouth when Peter’s knuckle grazed over his prostate.  “I figured it couldn’t hurt to be prepared,” he said, breathy and light._

_“Clever boy,” Peter purred, sucking a mark onto Stiles’ neck.  The white-hot sting of teeth against his sensitive skin made Stiles keen.  He tapped at Peter’s arm until he withdrew his fingers, and then lined himself back up with Peter’s cock.  Inching down slowly, Stiles took his time, eyes prickling at the burn._

_Sweat beaded at his temples as Stiles continued to sink down.  Peter was thicker than what he was used to, and the stretch was most welcome.  Fully seated at last, Stiles rocked forward, testing the feel.  It pleased him that Peter remained still the entire time, letting Stiles get used to his body even though he was wound tight as a spring._

_Peter trailed his hands from Stiles’ hips, up his sides, all the way up to hook over the back of his shoulders, pulling down experimentally.  Stiles gasped, mouth open as he huffed out a breathy laugh.  Peter smiled back and did it again, pulling Stiles down against his hips, but unable to thrust upward from the position they were in._

_“I want to,” Stiles started to speak, leaning further forward and pressing a palm to Peter’s chest, directing him to lay down._

_“Whatever you want,” Peter said immediately, letting Stiles move his body into the desired position.  Stiles leaned over him, hands planted on either side of Peter’s head.  He moved further forward, breath ghosting over Peter’s lips.  The sensation reminded Peter that they had yet to kiss.  That seemed like a gross oversight._

_Peter lifted his chin a fraction of an inch until Stiles’ lips were pressed to his.  Time seemed to stop at that very moment.  How had he been so careless, to have missed out on this?  What the lower halves of their bodies were doing ceased to matter as Stiles opened his mouth, capturing Peter’s breath in their first real kiss._

_Once they began, there was no stopping them.  Stiles kissed him like he thought he’d never get the chance again, desperate and yearning.  It was dizzying and thrilling in equal measure, to have that mouth that he had lusted after for so long finally touching his own.  Peter surged forward, accepting Stiles’ tongue in his mouth like the benediction that it was.  Stiles was a tsunami, crashing into Peter’s carefully constructed stone walls, all-encompassing and inescapable.  With one simple touch of the lips, the wolf surrendered to the flood, content to drown._

_Peter wound his fingers through Stiles’ haphazardly spiked hair, pulling the man even tighter against his lips.  It struck Peter that he could very easily kiss this man forever.  Stiles hummed happily into his mouth, practically writhing in pleasure and excitement.  The little wriggle of his body reminded Peter that he was buried deep inside Stiles.  Smirking against Peter’s lips, Stiles realized he was in the position of power and lifted his hips, separating their mouths and dropping down heavily._

_All the air left Peter’s body.  He flopped down heavily on his back, arching his neck and pushing the back of his head even further into the pillows.  His shoulders dug into the mattress, setting a curve to his lower back.  The wind outside the cabin rattled the windows, whipping tree branches against the walls, seeming to respond to their renewed energy._

_Stiles sat back in his lap for a minute and just looked at Peter.  His eyes were shut tight, mouth slightly parted and chest heaving.  The tendons in Peter’s neck danced every time Stiles rocked down even the slightest bit.  Stiles had an urge to bite them, so he did, catching his weight on his palms as he scraped his teeth over the throbbing muscle.  The motion changed the angle of Peter in his body, and he whined, rocking back on his hands._

_Peter quickly curved an arm around Stiles’ lower back and held on to his oblique, offering that little bit of strength necessary to make Stiles really feel it.  Capturing Peter’s mouth again, Stiles rocked down hard, picking up the pace.  He sucked on Peter’s plush lower lip, and held on, letting the rhythm of their bodies pull Peter’s mouth along with him._

_“Stiles, I—” Peter began, panting heavily.  His eyes felt watery.  It wasn’t like Peter to get emotional during sex, but the slow, sweet drag of Stiles on his dick coupled with the feel of his skin when Peter trailed a palm down his arm, all the way to his hip… it was all a bit too much for Peter’s body to take in._

_“Don’t you dare,” Stiles cut him off, kissing him again, wet and insistent._

_Stiles’ mouth wouldn’t leave his again until they were both spent._

_Peter wasn’t even sure what he had been planning on saying, but now his only thought was keeping up with Stiles and being damn sure that he made the other man come first.  He planted his heels against the mattress and pushed upward with his hips, but he needn’t have bothered.  Stiles pressed him back to the bed, tangled his fingers in Peter’s hair, and stole the air from his lungs.  Long arms wrapped themselves around Peter’s neck, and it was all he could do to hang on tight._

_The next ten minutes went by so slowly, Peter could almost feel the air shift as the world stopped spinning.  There was nothing more or less than the feel of Stiles clenched tight around him, barely rocking in his lap and the hot slip and slide of Stiles’ tongue in his mouth.  Everything else ceased to matter and Peter lost all sense of time and space._

_Stiles’ pace was slow and unhurried, and Peter didn’t have any reason to object.  He couldn’t remember ever taking his time with someone like this before.  As far as Peter was concerned, making love was something people only did in movies, but Stiles was the exception to every rule, it seemed.  His hands started to slip on Stiles’ skin, which was glistening with sweat, making the room smell even more like their coupling.  It made Peter’s wolf whimper._

_The tidal wave kept pulling Peter along, each crest driving him closer and closer to his peak.  Finally, Stiles sped up, rolling his hips faster and faster in a show of more strength in his stomach and back than Peter knew he possessed.  Peter slipped his arm from around Stiles’ back and brought his hand to the front of the man’s body, letting Stiles thrust into the ring he’d formed with his fingers._

_Stiles, master of body language, stopped moving abruptly and didn’t start up again until Peter removed his hand.  He wanted to do this the right way.  Peter whined, but it was Stiles’ first time, and he wanted to come naturally with Peter, no matter how long it took.  Stiles was determined to wring every last drop of pleasure from the wolf with nothing between them but sweat and skin.  Groaning into Peter’s mouth, Stiles took his hands in his and interlocked their fingers, pressing them down to the mattress and holding them there._

_Peter hummed, blown away by Stiles’ strength and tenacity.  He let Stiles cover him completely until there was nothing else but Stiles, Stiles, Stiles.  Stiles stealing his breath, Stiles swallowing his moans, Stiles whiting out as he climaxed, clenching down so tight Peter saw stars.  Stiles, giving him the most intense orgasm of his life._

_They didn’t part for a while, continuing to kiss until their lips went numb.  Peter was still half-hard, his body making a valiant attempt to push back into his lover.  Stiles chuckled into his mouth, finally pulling away to peck kiss after kiss all over Peter’s face.  After such an intense hour, it felt good to laugh.  Peter’s voice sounded like gravel, and Stiles kissed him like he was something precious.  Unsure of how to respond to such cherishment, Peter just hummed, content._

_It was some minutes later before Stiles finally separated their bodies, rolling over onto his back beside Peter.  “Why didn’t you let me talk,” Peter asked, still breathing heavy, arm flung out high over Stiles’ head.  “I could barely breathe with your mouth glued to mine.”_

_The younger man pressed in closer to his side, nose twitching as he not so subtly drank in Peter’s scent.  If Peter didn’t know any better, he’d say Stiles was part wolf, the way he took so easily to their mannerisms, customs, and quirks.  As it was, Stiles seemed as comforted by the gesture as Peter was, knowing their scents had completely merged together.  It was something that wasn’t likely to fade for several days, or even longer if Peter had anything to say about it._

_“I knew what you were going to say, and I wasn’t ready,” Stiles said with a sigh, honey brown eyes flicking open to survey Peter._

_“What was I going to say, then?” Peter asked, half curious, half mocking._

_“You were going to tell me you loved me,” Stiles said, leaning up on one elbow so he could brush the sweaty hair back from Peter’s forehead._

_“I was not,” Peter said, snorting in disbelief, but also leaning into Stiles’ delicate touch._

_Stiles just raised his eyebrows and leaned back a little further so Peter could see him roll his eyes.  “Yeah, you were,” he said again, smiling softly before pecking Peter on the lips and laying back down.  He settled in easily, pulling Peter’s arm around his neck so he could rest his head on his bicep.  Stiles trailed his nose up the side of Peter’s face, leaving another trail of his tart, sharp scent._

_As Peter rested his stubbled cheek on the top of Stiles’ head and wrapped his other arm around the man’s waist, he frowned.  Now that Stiles said it, he wasn’t sure that hadn’t been exactly what he was about to say.  The confusing thought followed him into his dreams and for months afterward._


	6. That's Me in the Corner

Peter woke up dripping in sweat and hard enough to pound nails.  He didn’t revel in the thought of jerking off in the Sheriff’s house, but it really didn’t seem like he had any choice in the matter.  Calling upon the memories that had just haunted his dreams, Peter pulled himself out of his sleep pants and groaned at the contact.  His dick felt hot even to his own touch as he recalled the first time he’d made love to Stiles, back in the small cabin by the sea.  It sounded picturesque when he said it like that, but really, it had been a drafty shit hole.  They might have frozen to death if they hadn’t decided to share body heat.  However, Peter would have welcomed a cold breeze at that moment.  He felt like he was on fire.

It had been all Stiles’ idea.  Peter never intended to act on his attraction, but once Stiles came to him, Peter couldn’t deny either of them.  If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost feel Stiles’ lips on his, biting and sucking until he tingled all over.  He’d never kissed anyone for that long before, had never even thought it would be so important… not until Stiles had done it.  

Peter flopped over onto his side, burying his face in the pillow of the guest bed that had once been in Stiles’ teenage bedroom.  His mate’s scent on the sheets was very faint, but it was there, and it gave Peter the push he needed to eke out a truly dissatisfying orgasm.        

He grunted, disappointed and unhappy.  The past few days had been the first time he had woken up without Stiles next to him in nearly a decade, and besides the fact that he needed his mate’s scent to sleep properly, what good was a morning erection if there was no one to share it with?  Those were some of his favorite moments, sleepily rolling on top of each other, still warm and possibly wet from the night before.  Six weeks couldn’t go by fast enough.

Peter cleaned himself with a towel and slipped on a thin, well-worn tee shirt before heading downstairs.  Melissa and John were sitting together at the kitchen table with coffee.  He helped himself to a cup, shuffling along, still half asleep, and then dropped heavily into an empty chair.  Peter felt old, like he hadn’t slept in weeks, when really, it had only been a few days since Stiles’ accident.  

“You heading to the hospital?” he asked Melissa, curling his hands around the steaming mug.  

“My shift starts at 7,” she said, blowing on her own drink before taking a sip.  

“I can drive you, if you want,” Peter suggested, wondering what another day in Stiles’ room might bring.  The man’s behavior seemed erratic at best, and hostile at worst.  Stiles oscillated between wanting to hear stories of their life together, and wanting Peter to get the fuck out of his life and not to come back until he had a spell for universe hopping. 

“I work twelves,” Melissa reminded him, knowing the couple hadn’t spent time in Beacon Hills in recent years and probably didn’t have any idea what a normal day looked like.  “Sure you can handle that long with Stiles?”

“I married him,” Peter sighed, rubbing at the creases in his forehead, which had become much more pronounced in the past few days, he was sure.  “I said in ‘sickness and in health,’ and I meant it.”

“Didn’t he throw something at you yesterday?” Melissa asked, smirking a little behind her coffee cup.

“It was only a book,” Peter said, smiling mildly.  It felt fake even before John called him out on it.  

“It’s okay to be mad at him,” John said seriously, knowing no one else would be thinking of Peter’s feelings.  “He’s not making it easy for you.”

“Since when has Stiles ever been easy?” Peter said, making John huff out a half-hearted laugh.  “He’s worth it, though,” Peter added, twisting his lips as he bit on the inside of his mouth, a nervous habit that Stiles usually smacked him for.  

“Just make sure you take care of yourself as much as you take care of him,” Melissa warned.  If Stiles needed the full six weeks to heal, she wasn’t sure Peter would make it. 

“I just don’t know how to convince him that this is real,” Peter said, wishing he wasn’t so frustrated before he had even made it to the hospital.  “I don’t think he realizes how much that hurts.”

“Just give it time,” John said, patting Peter on the forearm.  “He’s a smart kid, but it’s a big adjustment.  He’ll figure it out eventually.  Just be yourself.  He loves you for you.”

“He doesn’t love me at all,” Peter said, pushing his chair away from the table and standing up.  “That’s the problem.”

“He’ll come around,” John promised, wishing he could do more to help.  “I’ll talk to him for you if I get sent out for a call, otherwise it’ll have to be tomorrow.  I’ve got double shifts today.”

“It’s fine,” Peter said, convincing absolutely no one.  “Don’t bother.”

Melissa and John shared a concerned look.  Peter couldn’t bear to watch them pity him.  “I’m going to take a shower.  I’ll be ready before you need to leave for work,” he said, heading back up the stairs.

Even his gait looked off.  Peter was worn down, defeated, and John felt partially responsible.  Stiles had run from him and their home when he was 18, so it wasn’t surprising that this regressed Stiles was reluctant to listen to anything he had to say.  He knew his own absentee parenting and lack of trust in Stiles had been a key factor to the dissolution of their relationship and Stiles’ eventual departure, and now that Stiles felt that age again, the space between them seemed insurmountable.

“We have to help him,” Melissa said, reaching for her husband’s hand.  “Stiles isn’t going to accept him easily.”

“Look how far we’ve come,” John sighed, twining their fingers together.  “I’m actually considering pushing my son and Peter Hale together.  I think it’s even for his own good.”

“Whatever may have happened between us, Scott, and Stiles in the past,” Melissa said softly, “I think we can both agree that Peter was actually part of the solution, not the problem.”

“He definitely was,” John admitted.  He was almost grateful to the man at this point.  If Stiles hadn’t wanted to marry Peter, and for him to witness it, it was possible John might have never heard from his son again.  


	7. Where Does the Good Go?

Stiles was awake already when Peter got to the hospital at 7 a.m.  It wasn’t unusual for Stiles to teach an early morning yoga class, so it wasn’t surprising to Peter that the man was already up and bored before the sun had even risen properly.  

“Good morning,” Peter said, strolling in casually.  “Did you sleep well?”

“No one ever sleeps well in hospitals,” Stiles said, grumpy and antsy.  “Someone comes in to poke and prod you every two hours.  It’s not really conducive to healing and relaxation.”  

It showed.  There were purple bruises under Stiles’ eyes and down his cheeks, and the addition of the gauze wrapped around his head made him look even more frazzled and pathetic.  There were more bruises down the right side of his face.  The doctor had said that was to be expected, but it still looked painful.

Peter hummed in agreement, not wanting to say anything on the off chance Stiles was about to bite his head off, as the mood and his scent suggested.  There was a storm brewing.  Peter could feel it in the air.  

“Any idea what you’d like to do today?” Peter asked mildly, knowing what was coming.

“Oh, I don’t know Peter, maybe I’d like to go see a movie!  OH WAIT!  I can’t see a movie!  I can’t even look at my phone!  I’m not allowed out of this goddamn room except for my brain scans, which they still have to sedate me for, _by the way_ !  So why don’t you tell me what the fuck _you’d_ like to do today?”

 _And there it is_ , Peter thought, taking a deep breath.  He didn’t want to rise to the bait.  He wouldn’t.  Stiles was hurt and confused, and he shouldn’t yell at his husband.  It was something they had been pretty good at avoiding for the past decade, and Peter really didn’t want to start now.  He pinched the bridge of his nose and took another deep breath, holding it this time as Stiles continued to berate him.  

“You wanna tell me some more about how I’m in love with you?  About how great our marriage is?  You want to tell me about how I proposed?  I bet it was cheesy as hell.  You want to tell me again how I left all of my friends, my dad, and my home to run off with you?  A fucking murderer who I wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole?  Please, tell me how great and romantic our love bubble is!  I really want to know how I fucked up my life so badly that you are literally my only friend!  You killed your own niece, for fuck’s sake!  And then I helped kill you!  How could I ever want to spend my life with you?”

“I think you need to cool off,” Peter said, barely holding it together.  He could feel his hand starting to shake in his pocket.  “I copied a few of your playlists onto this,” he said, pulling a small MP3 player with a set of earbuds attached from his pocket and holding it out to Stiles.  “I thought you might like to listen to something if you weren’t allowed to read or use your phone.  Just keep the volume low or you’ll get a headache.”  Stiles didn’t reach to take it, so Peter tossed it onto the bed.

“Don’t you fucking be nice to me,” Stiles growled, hands clenching in the blanket on his lap like he wanted to pull it apart thread by thread.  Peter could tell that the lack of daily exercise was really starting to get to Stiles on a physical level.  “You’re so fake.  You stand there with your fancy shoes and your charming little stories and you think you can seduce me?  You think you can convince me that we had something real?  There is no way on Earth I would stoop so low.  You took me away from Scott, and my family, and you fucking brainwashed me!”

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Peter said, voice low and cutting.  “I did not brainwash you!”  He had tried being reasonable, but Stiles was just going too far.  There was no way Peter was going to let him labor under that misrepresentation.  

“You know what the truth is, Stiles?  The truth is that _you_ fucked up your life.  I had nothing to do with it.  You’re the one who ran away.  You’re the one who never called home.  You’re the one that let all of your relationships fall apart.  I let you lean on me because I loved you, not because I thought you didn’t need anyone else but me.  

“Do you know how many times I begged you to call your father?  Do you know how many times I held you while you cried about missing him?  About how angry you were with yourself for letting it happen in the first place?  About how you missed your precious brother Scott?”  Peter took a deep breath, wanting to keep his tone even.  He refused to yell at his husband, even if he was being a complete and utter asshole.  

“You did this.  I didn’t ask for you to come into my life.  I didn’t ask to marry you, and I certainly didn’t seduce you.  You did all of that on your own.  Even my becoming an Alpha again was for you.  I didn’t ask for any of this,” he said, sounding almost sad at the thought.  “The only thing I asked for was to be your mate, and you wanted that too!  Those were all _your_ choices!  So if you’re upset with how things turned out, you have no one to blame but yourself!”

Peter’s chest heaved.  He’d always wanted to tell Stiles that, but he’d never seen the point.  What had been done was done, and there was no sense in dwelling on it.  But now, when Stiles was so clearly trying to blame his entire life and all its shortcomings on him, Peter had to speak up.  It felt good, but also horribly wrong.  Once the words had come out of his mouth, he started to wish he had never said anything.  What if Stiles’ memories came back and he was angry with Peter?  What if he came back to himself only to actually want a divorce?  He should have kept his mouth shut.

“I’m to blame for you becoming an Alpha?  Really?” Stiles said, incredulous.  “How could I possibly have forced you to murder someone for their power?  How is that _my_ fault?”

“I didn’t say it was your fault!” Peter screamed back, unable to keep himself from getting worked up.  Stiles was twisting his words, making it into something ugly.  Their relationship wasn’t like that, and he wanted Stiles to know why.  “I said it was _for_ you because it was!  The Alpha was after you!  It had come into our house, half feral and ready to eat you alive!  You think I wanted that power again, after what happened the first time?  I did it for you!  I’d rather die than let someone hurt you, you ungrateful little shit!”    

“Ungrateful?  You’re calling me ungrateful?” Stiles practically screamed.  “And what exactly should I be grateful for?  The fact that my husband is comfortable with murder?  Or the fact that I’m your mate and you’ve got a martyr complex?”

Peter didn’t answer.  He considered pointing out that Stiles was a murderer as well, and had, in fact, probably caused the deaths of more people than Peter if anyone had been bothering to keep count, but it felt wrong.  Peter was out of his mind, but Stiles had been possessed and then suffering from PTSD, the two didn’t really compare.  He had already explained it to him a few days ago when Scott had visited, and he really didn’t want to dredge it all up again.

Stiles took Peter’s silence as a sign of his defeat, and threw one more punch for the knockout.  “I bet the mating wasn’t even consensual.  There’s no way I would have let you bite me willingly.”

Peter’s stomach clenched and he felt his morning coffee boiling like acid inside of him.  His eyes prickled and he turned his back on Stiles, not willing to let the man see him cry over his words.  He swallowed around the bile seeping up his throat, wincing at the burn.  The thought sickened Peter.  

“Don’t you dare,” Peter growled, so furious that his voice wavered.  “You want to blame me for everything else that’s gone wrong in your life?  That’s fine,” he said, already feeling the tears start to collect in his eyes.  “But don’t you dare tell me that our mating was rape.”

“What’s the matter, Peter?” Stiles shouted even louder, unbothered by the man’s emotional response.  “Upset that your favorite little fuckdoll finally wised up?”

“THAT’S ENOUGH!” Melissa screamed, storming into the room.  “The whole hospital can hear you two!” she hissed, embarrassed that she was related to the two idiots.

“Could you please kick Peter out of my room?” Stiles asked, voice saccharine sweet.  “I don’t want to look at him anymore.”

“Yeah, well I don’t want to look at _you_ anymore either, but it’s my _fucking job_ ,” Melissa said, glaring daggers and Stiles.  “You _are_ an ungrateful little shit.  Peter is your husband, and he has done nothing but love and honor you for ten years, and this is how you repay him?  I know a little something about abusive marriages.  This isn't one.  Trust me, you have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Stiles stared, dumbfounded as Melissa walked over to Peter, who was still facing the wall, and gave him a hug.  She pulled a few tissues out of a box on the side table and handed them to him, whispered something in his ear, and patted his back as he strode from the room.  He didn’t look back, but Stiles could hear his sniffling as he walked away, back held straight like he had something to prove.

“I can’t believe you!” Melissa hissed again, turning back to look at Stiles with her arms crossed.  “That man is the best thing that ever happened to you, and I mean that literally.  He worships the ground you walk on, takes care of you, holds your hand, and you think it’s okay to treat him like shit?  Just because you’re upset about Scott?  I’m going to tell your father about this, and you better believe he is going to give you the smack down of your life.”

Melissa set her jaw firmly and flipped her hair as she turned to leave.  Thinking twice, she turned back and said, “your mother would be ashamed of you.”

Stiles bit his lip.  He opened his mouth to speak, but didn’t get the chance.  

“And so am I,” Melissa finished, and closed the door behind her.  

Stiles curled up on his side, laying down on the good side of his head and looking out the window.  The sun had risen while he and Peter argued, and now it was the only light in the room.  Warm oranges and reds almost burned his eyes.  His hip hit something hard, and he felt for it, his hand finding the MP3 player Peter had given him.  

He was exhausted, completely worn out from screaming.  His jaw hurt, and his neck felt like it had a permanent crick in it.   _Just cry_ , he told himself, unraveling the headphones and pushing them into his ears.   _You’ll feel better if you cry._  

Stiles hit play.

An acoustic guitar started strumming and a girl with a peculiar voice started crooning in his ear.  He’d never heard the song before, but that wasn’t surprising considering he was missing 10 years worth of pop culture.  If Peter were to be believed, these were his playlists.  He had chosen these songs.  There had to be a reason, so he listened, getting more and more angry because the tears just wouldn’t come, even though he desperately wanted them to.


	8. What Do You Do with the Leftover You?

He had only been asleep for a few minutes when his father came barging into his room.  Stiles felt groggy, like they had knocked him out again for tests, and really, he wouldn’t be surprised if they had.  His vision blurred as he tried to focus on his father’s vague, khaki colored shape.  

“Would you like to explain to me why Peter is sobbing in his car right now?” John asked, flicking the lights on as he passed them.  He stood tall at the end of Stiles’ bed, hands on his gun belt, strong and imposing.  

Stiles winced at the volume of his father’s voice.  He had a headache again, and this one was worse than usual.  There was a weird sound that kept buzzing around his head, whooshing and popping every time he moved.  That couldn’t be normal.

“We had an argument,” Stiles said, squeezing his eyes closed in an effort to stave off the pressure in his head.

“That wasn’t an argument, that was a fucking lynching,” John said, pointing an accusing finger at Stiles.  “What were you thinking?”

“I don’t understand,” Stiles said softly, hoping his tone would take his father’s down a notch and save his head.

“What don’t you understand?” John said, sighing heavily, and pulling a chair close to the side of Stiles’ bed.

“ _Anything_!” Stiles groaned, flopping back down on the bed.

“Be careful!” John reminded him.  “The sooner you heal, the sooner you’ll be able to get out of here and go home.”

“Where’s home?” Stiles asked, somewhat rhetorically.

“With Peter,” John said, insistent.  “He thinks you hung the moon, kid.  I wasn’t convinced at first.  I thought he had stolen you away from me, carted you off in the middle of the night.  But I was wrong.   _You_ did that.”

Stiles sucked in a breath.  It was finally starting to sink in.  This was his life.  He had made his choices, and they had been the wrong ones.  _He_ had been the one to cause all the fractures in his relationships.  It was almost incomprehensible.  Just a few short weeks from now, or what would have been now to him, he was going to lose his mind and kill a man.  Sure, they had all kind of had a hand in killing Peter when he had gone rogue, but Derek had laid the final blow.  To know that he had done it himself this time, and in a particularly gruesome way, it was a lot to wrap his head around, even after the Oni’s attack on the hospital.

“Look,” John said, tone softening.  “You were in the worst shape of your life.  You definitely needed therapy, and I wasn’t around like I should have been.  I was the adult, and I saw what happened to you, and I didn’t get you the help you needed.”

“It’s not your fault,” Stiles said, completely shocked by his father’s response.  “It was something I did.  I just wish I had handled it better.”

“I’m sorry, Stiles.  I really am.  I should have done better by you,” John said, leaning across the divide to wrap his son up in a hug.  “Peter told you what happened, but I understand how you still don’t believe it.  You didn’t live through any of it.  But believe me when I say, he’s never lied to you.  He’s never needed to.  Sometimes the truth is harsh, but it’s what you need to hear.”

“It’s just so much worse than I was expecting my future to be,” Stiles muttered into his father’s throat, strong fingers digging into his arms so he wouldn’t let go.  “Scotty doesn’t talk to me.  Allison and Isaac are dead.  Fuck, so many of us are dead.  Boyd and Erica, too, and I just… I haven’t seen Lydia or Derek in years, I don’t visit you enough.  I missed your wedding!” he sobbed, unable to keep the tears in any longer.  

“You weren’t ready,” John said, doing his best to console Stiles.  “I’m not going to say that I wasn’t pissed off, and yeah, it still stings, but I know it wasn’t about me.  It was about you.  You were ashamed of yourself.  I think you knew what you had done was wrong and didn’t know how to fix it.”

“How _do_ I fix it?” Stiles asked, finally letting his dad pull back from their hug.  He kept one hand on the man’s uniform sleeve, though, afraid if he lost the contact, he would unravel.  Every part of his body felt wrong, like he was put back together incorrectly, or didn’t copy over quite right.  It made his skin itch and his muscles ache, knowing something was missing.  It worried him terribly, because he was pretty sure the thing he was missing was Peter.  

How could the man ever touch him again?  

“Well first, you need to make things right with Peter,” John said, patting Stiles’ hand, smiling a little at how young it made him feel, to have his son clinging to him for security.  “You said some awful things, and you need to apologize.  Profusely.”

“I will,” Stiles agreed immediately.  “But that won’t be enough.”

“You’d be surprised,” John told him, smile growing a little wider.  “He puts up with a lot from you.  But that last thing?  About the mating?  That was brutal.  He would never touch you against your will, you _have_ to know that.”

“I just wish I remembered it,” Stiles said, frustrated with his own injury.  “Then I would know for sure.”

“You need proof?” John asked, raising his eyebrows slightly.

“How else am I supposed to believe this isn’t some elaborate ruse?” Stiles shot back.  He was only half serious.  There was little doubt in his mind now that he really did have amnesia.  He wasn’t sure what it was, but he could almost feel it in his bones, a longing to reconnect with this life and put the broken pieces back together.  The sensation was so strong, it just had to be real.

“I don’t think you would notice it if you didn’t know where to look, it’s kind of at an odd angle,” John said.  Stiles was confused.  He was about to ask what he was talking about when his father continued.  “But it’s right here,” John said, tapping a finger on a spot high up on the side of his throat behind his ear.

“What is?” Stiles asked, hand flying to the spot, feeling around for something.  There was nothing there.

“Your mating bite,” John said simply, like he had long ago gotten used to the idea of his son being a werewolf’s mate.  

Stiles tried to crane his neck, twisting and turning, but there was no way that would be visible to him except in the mirror.

“Take a look next time they take you for a shower,” John suggested, not having a mirror on him.  “It might make you feel better if you could see it.  Maybe that would help you remember it, let you know that it’s real.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Stiles said, pulling the man in for another hug.  “I really needed that.”

“You’re welcome,” John said, cupping the back of Stiles’ neck and pressing a feather light kiss to his bandage.  

“Can you make sure he comes back here?” Stiles asked, already nervous about seeing Peter again.  “I don’t have any way to reach him.”

“Of course,” John said.  “Here.  I’ll leave you his number, just in case.  Mine is still the same,” he said, writing the digits down on a scrap of paper and leaving it next to the phone.  “Love you, son,” he said, patting Stiles’ shoulder on his way to the door.


	9. The Trouble with Time is That You Can't Rewind It

“Your father says you’ve finally gotten your head out of your ass,” Peter said a few hours later from the other side of the threshold.  He didn’t make a move to enter the room.

“Would you please come here?” Stiles asked, wrapping the headphones around the MP3 player and laying it aside.  His ears were still popping painfully, and his head pounded and felt fuzzy at the same time, but the music had been his only diversion.

“That depends,” Peter said, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against the doorframe, feet still carefully outside the room.  “What’s in it for me?”

“What do you mean?” Stiles asked warily, not at all sure how the conversation was going to go.

“Well it seems we’ve made it past denial and anger, and I haven’t taken psychology in quite some time, but I’m pretty sure bargaining is up next,” Peter said, smirking, blue eyes twinkling in the low light of Stiles’ hospital room.  The harsh light in the hallway formed an almost ethereal glow behind him, making his form look like it had been sent directly from heaven.  Stiles wanted to laugh at the juxtaposition, but his head hurt too much to bother.  

“You’re such a smart-ass,” Stiles said, lips tempted to curl into a smile.  Half of him wanted to smack the guy, and half of him wanted to climb him like a tree.  He wondered if that was a common sensation for him.  

“Oh, I’m the smart ass?” Peter shot back, still not stepping inside the room.  “You’re the one who was so far in denial you thought a magic spell must have brought you to your worst version of reality.  I’m sorry you feel that way, but this is _my_ life, and I’m sick of listening to you disparage it.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said, and he genuinely was.  He shouldn’t have talked to Peter like that, no matter how frustrated he was.  “I shouldn’t have said what I said.  I didn’t mean it.”

“I think you did,” Peter said stonily, still more hurt than he let on.  “You always knew which buttons to press.”

“I really am sorry,” Stiles said, biting on his lower lip, not knowing what else he could say to make it better.  “I’m sorry I don’t remember anything about our relationship, but I talked to my dad, and after what happened with Scott, I think it’s pretty clear that no matter what’s happening, I’m going to need you.”  Stiles looked down at the MP3 player in his lap and smiled.  “You’ve been taking care of me this whole time, and I should have realized why.  I know that you care about me.  I can feel it somehow.”

Peter raised his eyebrows, not particularly impressed.  “So say I accept your apology,” he said, looking at his nails with false curiosity.  “The next topic up for discussion is reparations.”

“What?” Stiles asked, eyes narrowing.  “You want me to pay you in sex futures or something?  I don’t know about that.”

“Charming, but that wasn’t quite what I had in mind,” Peter replied, the lightness of his tone suggesting he found Stiles’ response amusing.  “Here’s how this is going to go… One,” he said, holding up his pointer finger, “you are to do exactly as the doctors tell you so you can heal faster and we can go home.  I don’t want to spend any more time in this God-forsaken place than absolutely necessary.”  He looked around the hospital room with disdain and it occurred to Stiles that Peter must have terrible memories of the place and was suffering through on his account.  

“Two,” he carried on, holding up a second finger.  “You are to treat me with respect.  I understand that you may not be feeling particularly affectionate toward me given your memory loss, but I do at least expect you to treat me as a friend.  If even that is too much for you, please regard me as a non-combatant.  And three,” he held up a final finger.  

Stiles noticed his confiscated wedding ring was now on Peter’s right hand.  It barely fit.  He could see how it pinched Peter’s skin tightly.  It made him feel a little better that Peter hadn’t chucked it after their fight.  At least the wolf hadn’t given up on him entirely yet.  

“Three,” Peter said again.  Stiles brought his attention back to Peter’s eyes when he repeated himself, a bemused look on his face when he caught Stiles staring at his hand.  “You find a way to make up with Scott.  I get the feeling that he may be more amenable to an apology from you when you’re in this vulnerable state, and I’m sick of dealing with your guilty self-flagellation.  You deserve to have friends, so as much as I dislike the man, I think it’s in your _and my_ best interest, to kiss and make-up.”

“Sounds reasonable,” Stiles said, a little wary.  He still had the feeling that Peter was very angry with him and was just letting his transgressions go because he felt Stiles didn’t know any better.  That didn’t seem fair.  “Are you sure I can’t cheer you up with some sexual favors?” he offered, only half kidding.  

Peter laughed, and Stiles realized how much he had been longing to hear the sound.  Peter _should_ be happy with him.  Isn’t that how they were supposed to be?  A real life happy couple?  If his father was to be believed, they were sickeningly in love with each other.  Stiles hoped they would get back to that point one day.  

“That is something you would say,” Peter teased, finally stepping into the room.  He took a seat on the chair next to Stiles’ bed and put his feet up, crossing his arms above his head.  Stiles watched the muscles in his arms flex appreciatively.  Maybe sex with Peter Hale wasn’t as repulsive a notion as he thought.  “You want to know why I became an Alpha again?  As colorful as your explanation was, I thought you might want to know the truth.”

“Yes, please,” Stiles said, sitting up in bed, ignoring the headache he felt coming on.  He hadn’t thrown up in a few days, and he hoped to keep it that way.  The longer he went between feeling any symptoms of his injury, the more encouraging he found his recovery.  He made a mental note to ask the nurses about the odd sounds he was hearing, and then promptly forgot about it.

Once again, Peter closed his eyes, falling into his memories like a leaf in a puddle, slowly sinking to the bottom.  Stiles watched the muscles move in his face, completely fascinated by the way the age lines seemed to fade.  Taking a trip down memory lane made Peter look five years younger.  

“It was a few years after we were married.  You had been teaching all day,” Peter began, letting out a breath through his nose.  “There was nothing out of the ordinary.  I think you had kickboxing and then some pilates, did your weight lifting and cardio routines, and went home.  I had a rough case that week and got stuck at the office working late.  You had made soup, the spicy butternut squash kind with the curry that was my favorite, and said you’d keep it warm on the stove for me to eat when I got home.”

Stiles licked his lips, wondering where he’d gotten the recipe.  He’d never even eaten that kind of soup before.  Peter carried on talking, snatching his attention back.

“When I pulled up outside the house and got out of the car, I immediately smelled a wolf.  It was this putrid, rank scent that made my eyes water.  I ran up the stairs two at a time.  There were loud crashes and banging sounds echoing off the walls, and when I finally got inside, you were in a heated battle with an Alpha wolf.  He looked dirty and smelled even worse, it was clear that he’d been living on the streets for a while, and had gone mad without a pack or anchor.  I was impressed, though.  You were holding your own.  There were broken knick knacks lying around like you’d been throwing them at his head, and you had pulled a golf umbrella from the stand and were defending yourself with it, much like you did with your staff during class.”

Stiles tried to wrap his head around that for the second time.  He was strong.  He could defend himself with anything.  He’d taken the time to train and get even stronger.  Peter had been proud of him… was still proud of him, for channeling his energy and honing his skills.  He had to be good,  he was an instructor.  Someone actually paid him to teach others how to defend themselves.  Stiles felt awed, clutching at his strong thighs under his blanket, wondering how long it would be before he was able to go back to the gym.  He didn’t want to think about all his hard work going to waste.

“I was about to step in, but you really did have it under control.  I roared, flashed my eyes and bared my claws.  It drew the wolf’s attention, and you were able to knock him unconscious with a solid blow to the head.”

Stiles winced, knowing that was probably what had happened to him and gotten him into this mess in the first place.  It was scary, how easy it was to completely ruin someone’s life, to take away their memories and every semblance of who they thought they were with one blow.  He hoped he never had to meet the student that had done that to him, even if it had been an accident, he was still furious.  

“I thought you were going to finish him off.  You were panting and sweaty, but you smiled at me and said, ‘you’re late!’  I laughed.  You were safe.  You had some bruises and scrapes, but otherwise, you were fine.  I could relax knowing the immediate danger was over.  I figured you were just going to grab a knife from the kitchen and kill him, but you didn’t.  You asked me if I wanted to do it, if I wanted to be an Alpha again.

“I didn’t.  Not really.  What we had was good.  I didn’t want to make any other Betas, and I didn’t need a pack besides you.  But then you smirked at me, gave me that sexy little cock of the hip and told me, ‘we could be mated if you killed him.’”

Stiles took in a deep breath.  Had he really done that?  Had he really teased Peter into ending a man’s life just so they could be mates?  He barely even knew what really being mates meant.  But future Stiles did, and apparently, he knew just what to say to get Peter to comply.  It was dizzying, realizing how well he knew this man.  Or maybe that was just his head spinning, whooshing, and popping all at once.

“I _did_ want to make you my mate, to be yours.  But I was still a bit hesitant.  Then you raised your eyebrows at me, daring me.  You said, ‘I think you should do it, because I’ve always wanted to know what it feels like to be knotted.’”

Stiles laughed out loud, knowing now that the story had to be true.  He _had_ always wanted to know what it would feel like, and he was positive that he would have said it to Peter in just that way.  Laughing made his vision blur, so he tried to reign it in when Peter continued the story.  

“I almost had an aneurysm.  You were always doing that to me, catching me off guard.  You were so unexpected and spontaneous.  It certainly kept life interesting.  I couldn’t say no to that offer, I really couldn’t.  Not when I already wanted to be your mate, knotting was just icing on the cake.”

Stiles laughed again, wondering if Peter caught the innuendo.  One look at the wolf’s face told him that he did.  Peter was funny.  Since when was Peter funny?

“So I slit the wolf’s throat, and we used our tried and true method to get rid of the body.  I didn’t really want to make a habit of it, but one feral wolf wasn’t going to weigh much on my conscience.  He had signed his death certificate the moment he stepped into our home.”

As much as it pained him to say it, Stiles actually felt comforted by that statement.  Peter had killed to defend him.  He didn’t have to, Stiles had the situation well in hand, but he did it anyway, because Stiles _asked_ him to.  He tried not to dwell on that fact for too long, for fear that he might find his moral compass skewed by everything that had happened to them in the past.  Stiles didn’t want his past to define who he was.  He didn’t want to accept murder outright, and yet, it still felt oddly right, knowing that Peter would literally do _anything_ for him.

“We patched you up afterward.  There was no harm done, apart from a few broken glasses.  I was surprised the neighbors hadn’t called the cops, but really, we’d probably had louder sex than that before.”

Stiles felt his face heat up as he blushed.  Peter kept throwing out these comments like they were nothing, like they were commonplace.  Every time it happened, Stiles wondered what their sex life was really like.  It had to be amazing.  Just looking at them, their bodies and the way they knew how to move while fighting or dancing… that coupled with the fact that they’d been together happily for ten years told Stiles that there were no complaints to be had in the sex department.  

“It was amazing, the rush you feel when all that energy comes surging into your body.  The last time that it happened, I only had one goal, and it drove me to the brink of insanity.  You know that better than anyone.  But this time, my goal was something completely different.  I wanted to complete our bond.  It was something I hadn’t had any idea I was missing, the whole, complete feeling of being tied to you.”

Stiles sat up a bit straighter.  Sure, past Stiles may have known everything there was to know about Alphas and werewolf mating, but as it was right now, he was clueless.  

“You were right, only Alphas have true mates.  Betas get a sense of it.  They know who would be a good match for them, and they’re drawn to connect with that person, call it instinct or drive.  But being an Alpha with a mate was completely different.  There was something tangible about it, you could actually _do_ something about the feeling, something concrete.  You could make a physical connection that couldn’t be broken.  I craved it like oxygen, this need to become one with you.”

Peter still had his eyes closed, but his hand flew up to his throat, where Stiles now knew his matching mating mark was hiding near his hairline.  Stiles felt the touch like a bolt to the heart.  When Peter drew his hand away and twisted his neck to stretch, he could see it, a faint silver crescent behind his ear.  The urge to touch it, put his mouth on it, was almost overwhelming.  Stiles vibrated with this need to map it out with his tongue, to feel the ridges and valleys.  He may have made a frantic _meep_ noise, but Peter ignored it, almost done with his story.

“You were willing, and the fact that you wanted it with me… it was nothing short of a miracle.  We collided like a car crash, all bones and teeth, all these sharp edges trying to reach further into each other.  You said my eyes were red the whole time, and it was the hottest thing you’d ever seen.”

Stiles chuckled again, it sounded harsh and brittle to his ears, like it should have been a moan instead.  Peter’s lip twitched, like he knew exactly what Stiles was thinking and approved.  It was a game to him, making Stiles want him, even before he had even known this universe was real.  Peter played him like a violin, and Stiles wasn’t even that upset about it.  He only wished he was healed already so he could finally know what it felt like to be pressed up against that body.  

“So, without going into all of the dirty details… the Earth moved, the stars aligned, the moon wept, et cetera, et cetera, and in the end, we were mated.  We rely on each other more than ever before.  Some people might say that’s a bad thing, how codependent we clearly are, but we’ve had enough trauma in our lives.  Frankly, if we want to cling to each other for a semblance of normalcy, I don’t have a problem with it.  

“Luckily, neither did your father.  He said as long as he didn’t have to see it, and I think he was referring to the weird sex, it was fine with him.  Thank God, because that man may be human, but he can throw a punch like a motherfucker,” Peter finished, rubbing his jaw like he still felt it.  

His eyes opened, and he gave Stiles a slow, wicked smile.  Stiles was half hard, and he was sure Peter could smell it, but instead of teasing him further, Peter stood up and made for the door.  “I bet you’re getting sick of hospital food,” he said, patting his back pocket to check for his wallet.  “How about I get us some lunch?  Just don’t tell Melissa, okay?”

“Okay,” Stiles said, nodding as he left the room.  There was no doubt in his mind that Peter would return with his favorites.  Clearly, his husband knew him like the back of his hand.


	10. As Long as You Love Me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's for you, Annabeth ;)

After several pounds of curly fries and a strawberry milkshake, Stiles felt a lot more like himself, though the popping in his ears was getting more and more frequent and his jaw was still killing him.  

“Don’t get used to it,” Peter had warned him as he hid the evidence away in the trash under some crumpled up tissues.  “When you get back to the gym, you’re going to put us back on a healthy kick, I’m sure.”

“If you say so,” Stiles mumbled behind his napkin as he wiped his face, wincing when he hit a bruise.  He still didn’t understand why he had decided to eat rabbit food.

“Want me to read to you for a bit?” Peter asked, knowing there wasn’t much they were able to do in Stiles’ hospital room, and also that the injured man should probably take a nap.

“I have one question to ask first,” Stiles said, grabbing the MP3 player off the nightstand.  

“Sure,” Peter said, as he rifled through the duffel bag of amusements for the novel he had been reading last.

“Why does every playlist on here have the Backstreet Boys on it?” he asked, holding up the device and shaking it, just as Peter had a few days ago.  “There was a lot of stuff I hadn’t heard before, or at least didn’t remember, but I’m wondering when _As Long as You Love Me_ made it onto my top ten.”

Peter chuckled, leaning back in his chair with the book in his lap.  

“Why are you laughing?  Besides my horrible taste in music?”

“Because you’re more romantic than I realized,” Peter said, smirking slightly.  

“How so?” Stiles asked, still not following.

“That’s our song,” Peter said simply, as he searched for their bookmark.

“It is _not_ ,” Stiles countered.  “There’s no way that’s our song.  It’s horrible.”

“Yeah, it really is,” Peter agreed, laughing again.  His fingers flew to Stiles’ ring where it still sat on his right thumb, spinning the inner piece.

“So how did it become our song?” Stiles asked, biting his lower lip as he watched Peter’s Adam’s apple move from his laughter.  If he had pants on, he was pretty sure they’d be feeling tight.

“Is it story time again already?” Peter chided, clucking his tongue in admonishment.  “I already told you one today.”

“Please?” Stiles asked, fluttering his eyelashes.  “One more and then I’ll fall asleep while we go here and back again, or whatever.”

“Oh, alright,” Peter said, standing up to peel off his sweater.  Underneath was a plain V-neck, soft gray and worn in all the right places.  He pinched the fabric and pulled until it sat a little lower on his chest, exposing his collar bones and the top curve of each of his pecs.  Stiles held his tongue, hoping he hadn’t made any incriminating noises.

“It was a few months after we had moved to San Francisco.  You were working at the coffee shop, but I could tell you were starting to get antsy.  You had this weird fear that if we went out together too much, your father would track you down.  I had no idea what you were so worried about, hadn’t really figured out exactly why you had fallen out in the first place, but you were adamant about the fact.  You kept yourself off the books at the shop, but you were looking over your shoulder all the time anyway.

“I suggested you change your name, but you didn’t want any other name than mine, and I assured you that wouldn’t help hide you in the slightest.  When I got home from work, you were always full of energy, even after a long day frothing foam or whatever it was you had to do.  You were practically bouncing off the walls when we made dinner every night, and even more of a handful in bed than usual.”

Stiles smiled.  Peter was giving him all sorts of ideas.  

“You were dancing around the townhouse like a maniac, so I suggested you take up running or do a fitness class.  We hadn’t bothered to get you a new doctor, so you hadn’t had any Adderall in a while.  You needed another outlet, and surprisingly, dance turned out to be what you needed.  You joined a class at Southside, and pretty soon, you were trying other classes, testing out the variety.  You were happier than I’d seen you in months.”

It was stunning to Stiles that Peter had been his salvation in more ways than one.  He had been saving Stiles from himself for years and never asking for anything in return, as far as he could tell anyway.  

“This one class you took, the teacher had an odd obsession with 90s music.  You were playing boy bands and Britney Spears all the time and frankly, it was driving me insane.  If I had to see you do the dance to _Genie in a Bottle_ one more time, I was going to lose it.  It was doing things to your stomach, toning your muscles.  I just couldn’t handle it.  One night, you decided to give me a show.”

Peter smirked like he was picturing it, letting the scene play out for him on the bland wall of Stiles’ hospital room.  Stiles felt his mouth go dry.  Apparently, it had been hanging open for quite some time.  

“You turned on a 90s station and started dancing around the living room, standing on the coffee table, giddy and so unfairly gorgeous.  When the song changed to something slow, I figured you’d give it a rest, maybe follow me back to the bedroom, but you didn’t.  You pulled me up off the couch and slow danced with me, to that song.  I don’t know how or why, but you knew all the words, and I guess they just… spoke to us.”

Stiles tried to find the lyrics in his head, and he thought it would have been easy to remember them, he’d only heard the song about 30 times in the past three days alone, but they were somehow still locked off, still out of reach.  He needn’t have tried very hard, though, because Peter was right there, filling in the blanks.

_“I don’t care who you are_

_Where you’re from_

_What you did_

_As long as you love me”_

He sang the words, low, but clear, and Stiles thought his heart might melt.  They didn’t sound silly or juvenile when Peter sang them.  They sounded deep and meaningful and so, so close to home.  Peter and Stiles had definitely done a lot of things that they weren’t proud of, and yet, they still saw the good in each other.  None of the bad stuff seemed to matter.  Stiles smiled, laughing as Peter shrugged his shoulders.

“I think I get it now,” Stiles said, still staring at Peter’s mouth.  “It’s silly and a little crazy, but I get it.”

“You made me dance with you for an hour, and after that, whenever the song came on as you practiced your dance moves, you’d hit repeat, and play it until I shut you up.”

“And how did you shut me up?” Stiles asked cheekily, knowing the answer.

“I have my ways,” Peter said, giving Stiles a closed mouthed smirk.  

His stubble was growing in, and Stiles realized that he must not have been sleeping.  Their separation and Stiles’ injury was wearing him down just as much, and Peter had never complained.  Apart from the harsh words they had spewed at each other a few days prior, Peter had never asked for more than Stiles could give.  He hadn’t pushed, hadn’t touched him unless Stiles initiated the contact.  It was sweet and also respectful, how Peter had given him space.

“This must be killing your wolf,” Stiles whispered to himself, forgetting or not caring that Peter would be able to hear.

“You have no idea,” Peter said, hanging his head and rubbing at the space between his eyebrows.  He was holding a lot of tension in his body, and Stiles definitely wasn’t helping.  

“Is there…” Stiles trailed off, not sure what he was offering, or if he was even ready to offer anything.  He may have felt desire for Peter, may have been longing for his touch, but wasn’t that just muscle memory?  His body was attuned to the man in a way that he had never experienced before.  Peter must have known how to tap into it, and his past self must have too, but Stiles was flying blind, unfamiliar with the sensations.  He had no idea what to do with what he was feeling for Peter.

The wolf looked up at his words and didn’t look away, even though Stiles had stopped talking.  He seemed hopeful.  There was a little color in his cheeks that hadn’t been there a minute ago.  

“Is there something I can do?” Stiles asked eventually, licking his lips nervously.  He hoped Peter didn’t think that was a come on.  He definitely wasn’t ready for any serious touching.  Peter and past Stiles may have had a rocking sex life, but in his mind, he was still a virgin, and there was no way he was losing his virginity in a hospital bed at Beacon Hills Memorial.  

“Not anything… crazy,” Stiles clarified, unsure what _crazy_ would really entail anyway, but nervous nonetheless.  

“Could I maybe just…” Peter started, and then stopped himself, putting fingertips to his mouth like he wanted to shove the words back in.  

“Yes?” Stiles prompted, painfully curious.

“Could I touch your neck?” Peter asked quietly, a little embarrassed that he was being so needy.  “It’s just that, you’ve been in the hospital for days and so many people have been touching you.  I need you to smell like me again,” he finished weakly, giving Stiles a shy smile.

“That would be okay, I guess,” Stiles agreed, nervous before Peter had even moved to get out of his chair.  “Do I need to do anything?” he asked, unsure of himself.

“No, just be still for a second,” Peter replied.  

_Easier said than done_ , Stiles thought.  Peter got up from his chair slowly.  It reminded Stiles a little bit of a lion stalking its prey, but was probably meant not to spook him.  Peter walked around the side of the bed until he was near the window and stopped for a moment to look at the rising moon.  Stiles felt a shiver go down his spine at the subtle lupine hitch in his gait.  He was mated to an Alpha werewolf.  The thought struck him, swift and harsh enough that he could almost feel it.  

Peter smiled, small and gentle, and raised a hand to the side of Stiles’ throat, trailing it up from his clavicle to the spot right behind his ear.  A warm, broad palm cupped the back of his head, Peter’s thumb rubbing circles over his hairline, mindful of the bandages.  Abruptly, Peter dropped to his knees, removing his hand and leaning into the mattress.  He wasn’t touching Stiles, but he might as well have been, because it felt even more intimate, the way Peter inhaled deeply, nose only an inch from his waist.  Then he laid his forehead against Stiles’ thigh and froze.

He stayed there for several minutes, eyes closed, as he took deep, almost shuddering breaths.  Stiles fought to stay perfectly still, even though he ached to lean in.  He wanted to feel Peter’s nose trail up his face, wanted Peter to kiss him.  He had never been kissed by a man, and suddenly the thought was overwhelming.  

After some amount of time that didn’t seem nearly long enough to Stiles, Peter rose and brought his hand back to Stiles’ throat.  Stiles turned his head into it, nearly trapping Peter’s hand there against his skin.  

“Could I?” Peter asked, and Stiles nodded yes without even thinking about it.  The next thing he knew, Peter’s lips were pressed against the skin behind his ear in a dry kiss.  A startling sensation shot up Stiles’ spine.  After a few seconds, Peter pulled back.  Stiles wanted to chase after his mouth, to get a taste of that feeling again, but Peter was already a few steps away.

“Thank you,” he said softly, looking at his feet.  Stiles had never known Peter Hale to be anything but confident, haughty, and argumentative.  The woeful look on the wolf’s face made his head hurt.  “I think you should get some rest now,” he said, and within a few moments, was gone.


	11. No More 3 by 5s

“They said I could take you out for some fresh air today,” Peter said cheerfully, pushing a wheelchair into Stiles’ hospital room.  

“Oh wonderful, it’s only been two weeks, and _now_ they decide I get to see the sun?” Stiles griped, edging his way to the end of the bed.  Peter didn’t bother letting him stand, just scooped him up and placed him in the chair.  “I can stand, you know,” Stiles complained, swatting at Peter’s arms.  

“I know, but this was more fun,” Peter said, smirking as he laid several blankets on Stiles’ lap, tucking them in around his legs.  “And so long as you keep feeling dizzy, you need to sit in the chair.”

“Let’s just get out of here,” Stiles said, putting his feet up on the footrests.  “I need to work on my tan.”

“You don’t have a tan.  You’ve never had a tan, you just turn into a lobster,” Peter said, grabbing the handles of the wheelchair and starting to push Stiles from the room.

“Hey, a guy can dream,” Stiles said, leaning his head back against the headrest so he could look up at Peter’s chin.  “Not all of us can be bronze Adonises.”

“True,” Peter smirked, and got another slap from Stiles in return.  “The doctor also said you still weren’t allowed to read yet, but you could look at some pictures.”

“So you’re going to bring me a picture book?” Stiles asked, raising his eyebrows.  He had to shield his eyes from the sun when Peter finally got him outside, but the wolf pulled an extra pair of shades from his pocket and handed them to him.  

“I was going to suggest a photo album, actually,” Peter said, smiling as Stiles struggled to get the sunglasses on over his bandages.  “But if you’re looking for children’s books, I’m sure I could hit the library.”

“Very funny,” Stiles said, closing his eyes and tossing his head back, basking in the warmth of the sun.

“You do have an X-rated coloring book somewhere, too.  If you’re looking for a more adult activity to pass the time.”

“I have coloring books?” Stiles asked.

“A few,” Peter replied, pushing him over to a bench so he could take a seat as well.  “It was the trendy Christmas gift a few years back.  It’s supposed to be good for relaxation.  I can bring a couple over if you think you might want to look at them.”

“I’ll pass,” Stiles said, not wanting to feel any more like an invalid than he already did.  Something about coloring just made him feel like he was a terminal cancer patient in a children’s ward.  

“Doctor Stevens said it may help you to fill in the blanks of your memories if you can trigger them with something.  Apparently you need to do exercises, stretch your memory like it’s a muscle,” Peter said, leaning his arms out against the top of the bench, turning his face up toward the sun.

“Isn’t it more likely that my memories will just never return?” Stiles asked, mood turning grouchy almost immediately.

“It’s possible,” Peter said, trying to keep his tone encouraging.  “But there’s no harm in trying.  Maybe it’ll be good for you.”

“I doubt it,” Stiles said, tone bitter.  Peter hated when Stiles was upset.  It made his scent sour, tickling Peter’s nose with the urge to sneeze or leave the immediate area.  Usually, a few minutes of cuddling would be enough to pull Stiles out of a bad mood, but Peter didn’t really have that option at the moment.  

“Well I brought one anyway,” Peter said, almost harsh.  If Stiles wasn’t going to take an active role in his own recovery, Peter was just going to have to take matters into his own hands.  

“Great,” Stiles said, curling his hands into fists against the armrests of the wheelchair.  He wanted to wheel himself away, to be anywhere but here.  Peter was disappointed in him before the day had even really begun.  

“They also said you could watch a few movies, but really more like listen to them.  They don’t want you staring at the screen for too long,” Peter said, still trying to salvage the day.  “If you promise to rest your eyes, I can bring over some of the newer Avengers movies.  Think you would like that?” Peter asked.  It sounded patronizing to Stiles’ ears, but he _was_ still interested in watching the movies, so he agreed readily.

“A movie would be good.  The last one I remember seeing was _The Winter Soldier_.  School was just about over by the time it came out.”

“That’s perfect then,” Peter said, actual happiness coming back into his voice.  “You’re going to love _Guardians of the Galaxy_.”

“If you say so,” Stiles muttered, feigning interest.  He really just wanted to go back to bed and forget all about his lost memories.  

“Trust me,” Peter said, picking a fallen leaf off of his shoulder and twirling it around by the stem.  

Stiles had to admit, the movie was great.  Even though he wasn’t allowed to look at the screen very often, the soundtrack was amazing, and the music really helped him to get into the story.  He may have cried a little at the beginning when Star-Lord’s mom died, but thankfully Peter had the good sense not to comment on it.  

He took a nap afterward, and Peter snuck him in another cheeseburger for dinner.  Doctor Stevens came by to check in, and assured the couple that the odd sounds Stiles was hearing was air that had gotten in during his surgery.  It was annoying, but normal and would hopefully go away with time, just like the headaches, blurred vision, and nausea.  Apparently, it was a miracle that Stiles didn’t have any serious deficits, and he should be thankful he was feeling so well.  Stiles definitely _didn’t_ feel thankful.  After the check up, Peter rummaged into the duffel bag he had been bringing back and forth every day and pulled out a cheap spiral book full of photos.  

“We didn’t take many,” Peter admitted sadly.  Stiles felt good about that, at least, that Peter wished they had more documentation of their life together.  With his mother, the pictures were all he had left in the end.  Stiles didn’t want to think about that now, though.  He wasn’t dying.  Peter didn’t need to remember what things were like back then, he was still here now.  

 _You’re still alive, but you’re not the same Stiles,_ he thought to himself.  Maybe Peter would always love that Stiles more than he would ever love him, the new Stiles that didn’t remember anything that they had loved about each other or anything that they had done together.  The new Stiles that was a virgin with murderous tendencies…

“It’s not like we had a wedding or anything,” Peter said, cutting into Stiles’ spiraling thoughts.  “Well I mean we did obviously, but it wasn’t a formal affair.  I think your dad took a few photos on his phone.  They’re probably in here somewhere.  Most of these are printed from Instagram or whatever.”

Stiles smiled at that.  At least his father had been around for him on what was probably the biggest day of his life, even if Stiles hadn’t given him that same consideration.  Even after their stilted reunion, he had still missed out on watching his dad marry Melissa, and that felt awful.  Scott must have been there.  Hell, he may have even been his father’s best man, since Stiles could count on no hands the number of adult friends his dad had.  It should have been him.  He should have been there.  Apart from Scott, it seemed Stiles had a lot of other apologies to make.  

He tried to bring his attention back to the photo album that Peter had placed in his lap, but it was hard to concentrate.  All he saw were events that he didn’t recognize.  There were road trips and birthdays, candids of him working out, or Peter talking on the phone in an office.  In every photo he either had his eyes closed or his face was turned away from the camera.  Stiles stopped on a page full of travel photos.  

They had gone to Europe.  He didn’t remember.  He didn’t remember one second of it.  And yet there they were, in front of Buckingham Palace, at the Harry Potter Studio Tour, at Windsor Castle.  There were even a few of them from the Doctor Who Experience, something he had always wanted to check out.  

His finger paused on one particular shot of them in Paris.  They were kissing in front of the Eiffel Tower.  He flipped the page.  They were kissing on a gondola.  Another page, and they were there too, kissing in front of the Colosseum, Stonehenge, in front of a windmill as they stood in a field or gorgeous tulips.

He had never kissed his husband before.  He shut the book without going any further.  Peter looked at him, completely confused.  “What’s wrong?” he asked, putting his hand out face up on the blanket in case Stiles wanted to take it.

“I’ve never kissed you before,” Stiles said simply, eyes wide.  

Peter looked calm, if not a little amused.  The thought had obviously occurred to him.  It had been weeks since Peter had touched his mate outside of scenting him, weeks since they’d made love.  Clearly Peter had been feeling the distance.  “Would you like to?” he asked plainly, like he would be okay with either answer.

“I mean… yes… but I’m kind of… I don’t know...” Stiles trailed off, unable to put any of his feelings into words.  How could you tell your own husband you had never kissed a man before.  He’d only ever kissed three… no two girls before.  Lydia kissing him to pull him out of a panic attack didn’t count, it was embarrassing and not sexy in the slightest.  He didn’t want a pity kiss.  He didn’t even want drunken kisses with Caitlin.  He didn’t want Heather, apparently using him as a convenient choice to lose her virginity with, not that he had minded at the time.  He wanted something real.

Virginity… he was still a virgin.  Why did it always come back to that?  It was just sex.  What was the big deal?  It wasn’t like he’d never done it before.  In fact, they did it all the time.  He had been the one to go to Peter and take all his clothes off.  Past Stiles had game, and present Stiles just felt… so _very_ awkward.  He didn’t know what to do with his hands, or his mouth for that matter.  He’d never been the one to initiate a kiss before.  He was gross, in a hospital gown, and they hadn’t let him wash his hair yet, so he was sure he smelled disgusting.  There was nothing at all sexy about this.

“You’re scared?” Peter filled in, patiently waiting through Stiles’ entire inner monologue before speaking.  “That’s okay.  You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” Peter assured him, perching on the edge of his hospital bed.   

“But what if I do want to?” Stiles asked, fingers tingling with the desire to touch the man in front of him.  

“Then I’ll sit right here, and you can do whatever you like,” Peter said, doing just that.  He put his hands in his lap and looked up at Stiles with easy anticipation.  

“That’s a very interesting offer,” Stiles said, trying to find his bravado.  “What if I wanted to do something terrible?”

“I can handle you,” Peter said, raising his eyebrows and smirking.  “There’s nothing you could do here that you haven’t already done, I assure you.”

“Do you have a list of things we haven’t done?” Stiles asked, smiling wryly.  “Maybe we should do one of those things instead.”

“I don’t think you’re ready for anything that might be on such a list,” Peter said, filling Stiles with a sense of relief.  There were no expectations here.  He could do as much or as little as he wanted.  “One doesn’t exist by the way.  But if you give me a few days I’m sure I could come up with a handful of things we haven’t managed to get around to yet.”

“You do that,” Stiles said, laughing at his husband.  At least Peter was humoring him.  He hadn’t tried to pull away or make Stiles work for it.  He was just there, sitting a few inches away from Stiles, ripe for the taking.  And Stiles wanted to take him.  Take him where and how far, Stiles wasn’t sure.  But he wanted to get to know Peter somehow, to make it a bit easier for him to slip back into their romance.

“So…” Peter said, holding out a hand for Stiles to take.  

The wolf was trying, Stiles could see that.  He was trying so hard to make it easy for Stiles, to make it less scary to reach out and take what he wanted, but Stiles was still terrified.

“What if you just kiss me,” Stiles offered, wanting to give Peter his power over the situation.  He didn’t want to see it coming.  He didn’t want to overanalyze or smack Peter in the eye with his nose, or something else a virgin would do.

Understanding perfectly, Peter kissed him.  And it _was_ easy.  Peter leaned in, cupped Stiles’ cheek with his palm, and pressed a soft, somewhat wet kiss to his lips.  Then he pulled back and looked at Stiles, eyebrows raised.  

“Okay?” he asked, still smoothing his thumb over Stiles’ furry cheek.  They hadn’t shaved his face either, and it was starting to get a little wispy with downy hair.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, struck dumb.

“Want another?” Peter asked, eyes twinkling in amusement.  

“Yeah,” Stiles said again, licking his lips.

Peter smiled broadly.  This was the Stiles he remembered from the beginning, unsure, but eager in all the right ways.  He kissed Stiles again, nose twitching when the hair on his husband’s face tickled him.  “The beard is going to take some getting used to,” he commented, pulling back quickly.

Stiles rubbed at his own face with his palms.  “Yeah, I’m not a fan.  It makes me feel dirty,” Stiles agreed, wishing he had been able to shower and dress himself for the occasion.  Maybe when he finally got out of the hospital they would be able to go on a real date, where Stiles would feel sexy in his own skin, and able to seduce his husband on his own merits.  

“Would you like me to get you a razor?” Peter asked, sure they would have some in the hospital for surgery prep.  

“Yeah but, could you do it?” Stiles asked sheepishly.  “My hands have been shaking a bit.”

“Why didn’t you say something?  Have you been experiencing any other deficits?  When was your last scan?” Peter asked rapidly, worry starting to tinge his voice.

“It’s not my brain,” Stiles said, trying to calm Peter down.  The last thing he needed was an overbearing Alpha werewolf mate hovering over him every minute of the day.  “I think it’s the ADD?  I haven’t been taking any meds and I think maybe the exercise had really been helping me stay steady.”

“I’m sorry, I should have realized,” Peter said, rubbing a few fingers across his eyebrow.  

“Hey, Peter,” Stiles said, putting a hand on his arm.  “It isn’t your fault.  There are tons of doctors here making sure I’m healing properly.  You don’t have to be on top of everything all the time.  I know this is hard for you too.  You need to take care of yourself.”

Nodding shakily, Peter stood up and left the room, returning a few minutes later with a plastic razor and some shaving cream.  “I wish I had brought my own products, but desperate times…” Peter trailed off when he caught the acrid scent of sick in the air.  Stiles was hunched over the side of his bed, emptying his stomach again.  “Oh babe,” Peter said, dropping his burden on the bed so he could rub Stiles’ back.  “It’s okay.  It’ll pass.  I promise this won’t be forever.”

Stiles took comfort in the thought, but he was still feeling awful.  When his stomach finally stopped tensing, he leaned back against the bed, wiping at his mouth.  “I promise that wasn’t a response to the kissing.  The kissing was,” he croaked, reaching for his glass of water, “top notch.”

Peter laughed, and called out into the hall for someone to help him clean up.  Once they were gone and the room smelled like bleach, Peter held out his hand.  “Come here, I’m going to need the sink.  I’ll let you brush your teeth first.  I’m sorry I didn’t think to bring anything from home, this brand smells disgusting,” he mused, glancing at the label on the shaving cream.

Stiles laughed dryly, throat still burning, but inched to the edge of the bed so Peter could get him into his wheelchair anyway.  The wolf pushed him over to the sink in the adjoining bathroom, but he was so low he couldn’t see himself in the mirror.  

Peter lathered up his hands and began smoothing them down Stiles’ cheeks and neck.  Stiles arched into the touch, craving the comfort of Peter’s hands on him.  Peter worked in silence, methodically scraping the razor down Stiles’ cheek, rinsing it thoroughly in warm water after every swipe.  The rhythm and the motions were soothing.  Stiles enjoyed the fact that they didn’t need to talk all the time for him to feel comfortable with Peter.

Hooking a finger under Stiles’ chin, Peter tilted his head up and began shaving his throat.  Stiles shivered every time the razor touched the vulnerable skin under his chin.  Sure, Peter was using a safety razor, but it felt like an enormous leap in their slowly repairing relationship, to trust Peter like this.  Peter backed up for a moment, getting a view of both sides of Stiles’ face before he began trimming his sideburns.  Stiles sucked on his bottom lip, loving the intense, focused look on Peter’s face and the soft scratch of the razor on his skin.  

“You’re going to need a serious haircut after this bandage comes off,” Peter mused, rinsing off the razor for the last time and wetting a washcloth.  The fabric was hot and rough on his skin, but it felt invigorating.  He wondered if he had the balls to ask Peter to help him bathe.  

Watching Peter rub the cream off his face, Stiles realized that no, he wasn’t ready for that yet.  This had been intimate enough.  He wasn’t sure he could handle being naked in front of Peter right now, not when he couldn’t even care for himself properly.  Stiles never thought he would be one to feel emasculated, but he couldn’t help it, he was still uncomfortable with the power imbalance.  

Peter knew everything about him, probably knew every curve of his body and every mark on his skin, where Stiles knew next to nothing.  He’d seen Peter with his shirt off once or twice, but that was it.  He knew nothing about anything that really mattered.  He needed more time.

“Maybe I could buzz it all off again,” Stiles suggested, remembering Peter had been talking about his hair.  “Then I’d really look like jailbait.”

“I liked the buzz cut, actually,” Peter said, putting the washcloth aside and wheeling Stiles back into his room.  “I kind of wondered what it would feel like.  It was already long gone by the time we got together.”

“You know, when you say stuff like that, it really does make you sound like a predator,” Stiles commented, wrapping his arms around Peter’s neck as he was lifted back into bed.  This time, Peter leaned in, rubbing his cheek up against Stiles’ smooth one.  It felt exquisite, the scrape and slide of Peter’s regrown goatee against his clean skin.  Peter pressed a kiss to the side of his throat, and then sat back.  

“It never seemed to bother you,” Peter commented, smoothing out the wrinkles in his pants.  “The age difference.”

“I imagine it would have mattered more to other people than it did to us,” Stiles agreed, realizing that it really didn’t matter to him.  Even as he was now, feeling 18 years old, it still didn’t feel weird.  Peter always treated him like an equal, like they were a team, because they were.  

“If anyone has a problem with it, they’ve never mentioned it.  Besides your father,” Peter said, shrugging his shoulders.  “The little old ladies in your yoga class are much more interested in our sex life than in scolding us.”

Stiles almost choked on his own spit.  “They what?”

“I’m pretty sure you spend half of that class telling them all the sordid details.  You say it keeps them young,” Peter said, laughing.  “I wouldn’t mind if they would quit grabbing my ass when I visit you at work.”

“They do not,” Stiles said, laughing openly.

“Oh yes they do,” Peter said, returning the smile.  “I think you had talked it up enough that they all wanted to see what the fuss was about.”

“It is a very nice butt,” Stiles had to agree, even if he hadn’t seen it uncovered yet.  

“Thank you,” Peter said, ducking his head as he laughed.  “But I think it’s time you got some more rest.”

“Alright,” Stiles said reluctantly.  For the first time, Stiles really didn’t want Peter to leave him alone.  He wondered if he might be able to convince the wolf to spend the night, but Peter was already walking toward the door.  

“Goodnight Stiles,” he said.  And then he was gone.  

Stiles wasn’t feeling tired, so he pulled the photo album off the nightstand and continued flipping through the pages.  He took his time, making sure he had memorized the details of every photograph, where they were, what they were wearing, what the weather looked like.  It seemed they had learned pretty early on that the best way to avoid Peter’s eyes ruining the photos was for them to kiss, or for Peter to turn toward Stiles and kiss his cheek.

It hurt, to look at their whole relationship laid out before him and not remember any of it.  Stiles was determined to do whatever it took to get his memories back.  The last few pages were of their courthouse wedding.  They were both wearing gray three-piece suits, but Stiles’ had a checkered pattern.  Peter looked fantastic, much too good for him.  There was even one of Stiles with his father, the Sheriff’s arm draped across his back like there had never been any trouble between them.  Tucked into the back cover were two crumpled pieces of paper.

It was their vows.  They had apparently written their own.  Stiles would never have pegged either of them for public displays of emotion, but it seemed they had wanted to make their promises personal.  

The one that was written in his handwriting read, _“Peter, you’ve been my partner in everything.  You’ve saved my life more times than I can count.  You are my best friend and my family.  I promise to have your back for the rest of your life.  I will honor and defend the bond that we have with every breath in my body.  I love you, and will continue to love you for as long as I live.  I can’t wait to be your husband.”_

Stiles’ eyes teared up.  It was smudged and stained, but it was real.  He had said those words to Peter, and he had meant them.  Now more than ever he realized why he had clung to Peter.  He had been all that he had, but more than that, Peter had been everything he needed.  He had filled any role that Stiles required, and done so flawlessly.  When he read the words, he felt it, deep down in his bones, that Peter was the one for him.  He was lucky, to have a man like Peter love him.

Peter’s vows were much more eloquent, which didn’t surprise Stiles in the slightest.  The man had a way with words and a voice that made them dance like music.  As he imagined Peter saying the words to him, Stiles felt them deep down in his soul.  

The slip of paper read, _“Before I knew you, I was yours.  Before you first spoke to me, I was yours.  Before you loved me, I was yours.  I was made for you, to protect you, to honor you, and to love you.  There will never be another for me as long as I live.  I accept you as you are, and I offer myself in return.  Everything that I am belongs to you, my heart, my mate, my beloved.”_

Tears streamed down Stiles’ face as he read Peter’s words over and over again.  He finally felt it.  For the first time since he had woken up without his memories, he finally felt what Peter meant.  The man had pledged himself, body and soul, and Stiles felt humbled and honored to be the one those vows had been written for.  He made a promise, right then and there, to protect Peter’s heart, for the man had so clearly given it away long ago.  

Stiles stared at the photos until his vision began to blur and he needed to put the album away.  He stayed up for another hour, letting Peter’s vows ruminate.  Maybe it was finally time to take things to the next level in their relationship, if he was ready.  Well… he might be ready.


	12. I'd Be Your Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is NSFW. A little warning for those of you who are like me and like to try to get away with reading fanfic at the gym. If you get caught, don't blame it on me! ;)

“No, absolutely not,” Peter said, shooting down Stiles’ request for his husband to help him in the shower.

“What if I fall over and hit my head on the floor?” Stiles asked, pouting.  “You wouldn’t want me to set my recovery back, would you?”

“Don’t try to sweet-talk me,” Peter warned him, crossing his arms.  “I told you what the rules were after our fight.  You know what you have to do.”

“How am I even going to get Scott to come back here?” Stiles whined, pulling a pillow on top of his face, muffling his complaints.

“I’ll ask Melissa to call him for you.  He wouldn’t answer for me either,” Peter offered, pulling the pillow off his face and smacking him in the crotch with it.  “You’re just going to have to keep it in your pants until the terms of your probation have been met.”

“I like it when you talk legalese,” Stiles said, raising his eyebrows at the man.  “Now say, ‘I’ll need to see those briefs in my office,’” he prompted, winking at Peter.

“Oh, I see how it is,” Peter said, smirking.  “You need a little motivation to work up to dealing with Scott?” he asked, voice heating up.  Stiles didn’t know what it was about the tone that had him nearly panting, but he never wanted Peter to stop talking to him like that.

“Yeah,” he said.  “I think I need a little extra help.”

“I’ve got just the thing,” Peter said, pulling a kindle out of the duffel bag.  “I read a few of the stories you had on here, and some of them were quite… illuminating.”

“Oh?” Stiles asked, fluffing the pillow on his lap and placing it behind his back, propping himself up.  

“Oh yes,” Peter said, voice melting like honey in hot tea.  He had to know what the sound did to Stiles, and now Peter was going to continue to mess with him, he just knew it.  Tapping at the screen for a few moments, Peter pulled up the section he was looking for and began to read.

“Caleb stepped over the body of the dead Alpha at his feet and nearly leapt into Maxwell’s arms.  Their mouths collided, and it would have hurt if they hadn’t been so aroused.  Watching Max slit the wolf’s throat?  Caleb didn’t think he had a blood fetish, and he still didn’t, but the power behind the action was so compelling, he just couldn’t resist the man for a minute longer.  Max’s eyes flashed red, and Caleb fell into them, wanting to drown in the dark ruby pools.”

“That’s some pretty terrible imagery,” Stiles commented, but Peter held a finger up to his mouth and continued to read.

“Max grabbed Caleb by the hips and lifted, letting the man wrap long legs around his waist as he backed Caleb up against a wall.  They knocked into a picture frame, which fell from its hook and shattered on the ground.  Caleb just laughed, spurred on by the sound of destruction around them.  He devoured Max’s mouth, sucking on his bottom lip like he wished it was his dick instead.”

Stiles started laughing and couldn’t stop.  Peter raised a questioning eyebrow at him, but Stiles just moved his hand in a circle, prompting Peter to keep reading.  

“Max pulled away only to begin sucking a line of dark red marks onto Caleb’s elegant throat.  He delved deeper, ripping away the collar of Caleb’s shirt with one claw, careful not to mar the perfect skin below.  Caleb keened, pushing into Max’ touch as he trailed his mouth down, biting down hard on the nub of Caleb’s collar bone.  

“‘Just bring me to the bedroom already,’ Caleb whined, eager to get the rest of their clothes off.  ‘I need to feel your skin on mine.’  

“‘Like you don’t already smell like me?’ Max asked, chuckling.  

“‘I need it to be permanent,’ Caleb responded, voice heavy with the seriousness of the request.  

“Max growled his agreement into Caleb’s throat and wrapped his arms around the man’s back.  The twelve steps it took to get to the bedroom felt like an eternity—”

Stiles snorted again, but schooled his face quickly when Peter glared at him.

“—but finally, they made it.  Maxwell laid Caleb down slowly and so very carefully, one palm against the back of his head, gentling him down.  Max stripped his lover reverently, taking the time to run his palms over every inch of exposed skin, trailing after his hands with his mouth.  Soon, Caleb was panting, more than ready to feel Max’s naked skin against his own.

“‘You’re wearing way too much,’ he said, grabbing the bottom of Max’s dress shirt and pulling it from his pants.  Max hopped off the bed for a second to remove his shoes and socks, and then kneeled over Caleb once more.  The younger man undid his belt and finally got his fly open.  Tight black briefs were underneath.  ‘You and the fancy underwear,’ he commented, pulling the offending garments down Maxwell’s thighs, hands slipping on the silky material.  

“‘You know you like them,’ he said, rolling over to his back so he could kick his pants and underwear off.  

“‘I like it more when there’s nothing under your sweatpants on Sunday mornings.  Easy access is so underrated,’ Caleb said, voice sultry and teasing.  

“Max eased down the bed, flipping Caleb onto his stomach with one soft hand.  Caleb bounced twice before settling down on the mattress and grabbing a pillow to hold under his head.  ‘You look so good like this,’ Max purred.  Using his thumbs, Max pulled Caleb’s pert ass cheeks apart and blew over his hole.  Caleb shivered in anticipation.  He loved when Max spent hours opening him up, but right now, he just wanted things to be quick and dirty.  

“‘Would you mind hurrying up down there?’ Caleb asked, short and direct.  

“‘I’ll take all the time I like and you can’t stop me.  So why don’t you just relax and enjoy it?’ he replied, flattening his tongue and pressing it against Caleb’s hole.”

Stiles wished he hadn’t taken that pillow out of his lap.  The story was sounding a lot less ridiculous all of the sudden, and he was sure Peter knew what was happening.  That warm honey voice was getting to him, and he tensed his hands, trying to will his erection back down.  It was no use.  Peter just smirked at him over the top of the kindle and kept on reading.

“Max took his time, spending long moments licking and sucking at Caleb’s rim, finally getting him loose enough to take his entire tongue without resistance.  Then Max added in his fingers, sucking on them first to get them wet, he brought them to Caleb’s hole and gently pried them apart, taking the man as far as he could go.  Max knew that with enough time and attention, Caleb could come from his tongue and teeth alone, but he had something else in mind for tonight.  Caleb had asked him to make it permanent, and Max knew all too well what that meant.  The wolf wanted to be deep inside Caleb when he finally made the man his mate.  It had been a long time coming, and Max wanted to savor it.  

“When Caleb started to press back into his face, asking for more with his body, Max knew it was time to stop.  Turning Caleb over, he smiled down at the man and held up one palm.  Caleb knew that signal well.  When Max’s wolf was at the forefront, like around the full moon, he couldn’t stand the smell of anything artificial between them.  

“Caleb licked and sucked on Max’s palm until it was wet enough for him to stroke himself and press into Caleb’s body easily.  Eyes closed, Caleb licked his lips and drank in the sensation of Max sinking into him.  The stretch was always enough to make his eyes water, but once he was fully seated, Max felt incredible inside him.  

“Often times Max would lean back and put Caleb’s heels on his shoulders so he could drive deep, pounding into him when he started to whine, but this time, he leaned forward.  Max slipped his arms under Caleb’s biceps and around until he could hang on to the man’s shoulders.  Caleb smiled, pleased that he could reach Maxwell’s mouth.  They traded sweet but sloppy kisses, all tongue and open-mouthed gasps as Max drove them to their peaks.”

Stiles was imagining it.  He hadn’t yet heard Peter describe their sex life in detail, but if he had to speculate, he thought it would be something like this story, intense and passionate.  If he concentrated hard enough, he could almost feel Peter’s tongue on him, and that wasn’t doing much to dissuade his body.  He was tight as a bow string and he feared one wrong word from Peter would set him off.  

“Max didn’t lay a finger on Caleb’s cock, but the ridges of his washboard abdominals were rubbing him in all the right ways.  It was common for Caleb to come untouched, and there was no doubt in his mind that this was going to be one of those happy occasions.  Max’s mouth left his to trail down his neck, nibbling on the ridge of Caleb’s collarbone as his hips continued to piston in and out.  Caleb’s mouth had been hanging open long enough that it went dry, a steady stream of ‘oh, oh fuck, fuck fuck fuck,’ spilling out of his lips.  

“‘Are you ready?’ Maxwell asked, pulling back far enough to catch his eye.  Caleb stared in wonder.  Max’s irises were crimson.  He felt his cock go even harder at the sight.  He nodded repeatedly in small jerky movements, dying for Max to claim him properly once and for all.  

“Leaning down further, Max licked the trail of sweat off of Caleb’s throat and followed it all the way to his temple.  Caleb tossed his head to the side, far enough that he exposed that one beauty mark Max loved, the one that was nearly into his hairline, behind his ear.  Max growled, driven wild by the display of trust.  Not many men would bare their throats to a predator such as Max, but Caleb did it willingly.  

“The show of submission was all Maxwell needed.  He let his fangs drop into his mouth and set them in an arch around the beauty mark.  With one quick clench of the jaw, Caleb was his.  The shift in their relationship was palpable, but incomplete.  Max removed his teeth and lapped at the blood that trailed down Caleb’s throat, hips continuing to move in sinful circles, hitting the exact spot he needed.  Instinctually, Caleb knew what needed to be done.  He took one hand and pushed Max’s head to the side, exposing his throat.

“Max purred at the series of sweet butterfly kisses Caleb trailed up his neck, stopping when his mouth was right behind Max’s ear.  With blunt, painfully human teeth, Caleb bit.  Everything snapped into place.  That little piece of himself that had been dislodged when Maxwell bit him slipped right back into its home.  

“With Caleb’s teeth still piercing his skin, Max’s body tensed, and he came.  Caleb removed his teeth, watching transfixed as Max’s blood dripped down his sweaty neck in a thin line.  He ran one finger through it and wondered at the sticky substance as it sank into every ridge of his fingerprint.  This was Maxwell at his purest.  Now they had shared everything, sex, love, rings, and blood.

“At this point, Max usually pulled away and sucked Caleb off if he hadn’t come yet.  However, this time, if anything, Max seemed to sink into him even further.  He was continuing to circle his hips in slick, sinuous little motions that reminded Caleb how hard he still was.  Then he felt it, the base of Max’s cock beginning to swell.

“‘You did say you wanted to know what it would feel like,’ Max commented, looking up into Caleb’s eyes.  ‘If it’s too much, tell me now while I can still pull out.’

“‘No!’ Caleb said immediately, wrapping his legs around Max’s waist and pulling him in even closer.  ‘I want everything.’

“‘Good,’ Max replied, kissing Caleb for all he was worth.  It started off slowly, but soon Max was far too big to leave.  Everything felt so hot and tight, like Caleb’s favorite plug made flesh, but then it went beyond that, pulsing and growing even bigger.  Soon Caleb felt stretched to his limit, and still, Max had a little more to go.  The pressure was intense and intimate, pressing against Caleb’s inner walls.  His eyes began to prickle with tears again, but he breathed through it.”

Stiles exhaled as well, and he was pretty sure he was about to pass out.  He wasn’t getting enough blood or oxygen.  Everything felt so hot, and his hospital gown scratched at his erection, adding that little bit of friction that was sure to send him over the edge.  He couldn’t even be bothered enough to be embarrassed, Peter wasn’t looking at him, eyes flicking over the words like a typewriter carriage.    

“When Max was finally at his peak, he began to move, rocking and rubbing into Caleb, feeling out places he could scarcely reach before.  Max’s knot was tucked up tight against his prostate, rubbing an itch that Caleb had never felt so sharply before.  He sucked on Caleb’s tongue, pressed chest to chest, trying to connect them in every way possible.  Caleb sighed, a high, shaky exhale as Maxwell thrust in as far as possible.

“He came, with deep red eyes fixated on him.  His entire body tensed, and he screamed out his pleasure, ‘oh fuck, Max!’

“‘Oh God,’ Maxwell answered, pleasure coursing through him as Caleb clenched down on his knot.  ‘Come for me, Stiles!’”

And he did.  Stiles came in his hospital gown like a teenager on a first date, eyes clenching closed as he spurted his release onto the scratchy cotton.  His heart raced, heat flushing his face as he opened his eyes, prepared to be humiliated.  Peter just smirked, that self-satisfied look that made Stiles want to climb into his lap and pull on his hair.  A beat passed before Stiles’ ears caught up to his penis.

“Didn’t you mean Caleb?” he asked, wondering if Peter had been as affected, as caught up in the moment as he had been.  

“No,” Peter said, eyes twinkling in mirth.  “It says Stiles, right here,” he confirmed, turning the kindle so Stiles could glance at it.  

“Why is my name in that book?” Stiles asked, wondering what sick psycho had been stalking them and writing porn about them.

“Because I imagine you were picturing us while you wrote it and got a bit distracted,” Peter said nonchalantly, like he wasn’t surprised Stiles had been writing erotica based on their life.  

“No way,” Stiles argued.  “There is no way I wrote that!”  He wasn’t sure if he was pissed or impressed.  The beginning had been complete crap, but by the end, he had been right there along with Caleb, ready to accept Maxwell’s knot.

“It says right here,” Peter read, flicking to the top of the document.  “ _An Alpha’s Mate_ , by S. Stilinski Hale.  I guess that’s what you’re calling yourself in the literary world, or whatever little depraved corner of it you operate in.”

“Oh fuck,” Stiles said, flopping onto his back, letting the pillows flop around and bury him.  “I couldn’t even have come up with a stupid pen name?  I put my real name on that?”

“You did,” Peter said, amusement still evident in his voice, even if Stiles wasn’t looking at him anymore.  “But in your defense, I don’t think you ever planned on showing it to anyone.”

“You bastard,” Stiles said, slamming his palms down on the mattress.  “I can’t believe you made me do that.”

“I think you only have yourself to blame,” Peter said, shaking the kindle at him.  “And now, you know what you have to do.”

“Alright, fine!” Stiles shouted, sitting back up.  “I’ll apologize to Scott!  But you’ve got to help me shower now.  I can’t have any of the nurses see me like this.”

“No can do, darling,” Peter said, picking up a box of tissues and tossing it at him.  “I’m not touching you until you hold up your end of the bargain.  I’ll give you a minute,” he said, and left the room.  Stiles stared at his retreating back, mouth hanging open.  A loud noise in the hallway made him jump into motion, pulling a few tissues out of the box and wiping himself off before one of the nurses came in to check on him and saw his shame.


	13. You'll Be with Me Next Time

It had taken some convincing, but Melissa had gotten Scott to agree to another visit.  Stiles had been obsessively drying his sweaty palms on his hospital blanket for nearly a half hour.  He had a headache and was feeling nauseated again.  He only hoped he wouldn’t vomit on Scott’s shoes and add insult to injury.

“It’s going to be fine,” Peter said from his perch on the windowsill.  He’d spent years of his life looking out hospital windows.  His only comfort this time was that he could walk out and leave anytime he wanted to, even if it was only for a few hours of sleep before returning to Stiles’ bedside.  He wouldn’t leave Stiles alone in his place, it was like a magnet for supernatural catastrophe.

“What if he tries to leave again?” Stiles asked, not calmed by Peter’s placations.  “It’s not like I can chase after him!  I feel like I’m going to pass out any minute!”

“What if I put you in the wheelchair, and you take a stroll outside,” Peter suggested, waving his hand at the foliage out the window that had just started to change colors.  “That way you could at least roll after him.”

“Very funny,” Stiles said, rolling his eyes.

“It was a serious suggestion,” Peter said, going to the hall for a chair.  “And make sure to play it up like your head hurts so he feels bad for you.”

“You give the _worst_ advice,” Stiles groaned, allowing the wolf to lift him into the wheelchair.  “I don’t think being dishonest is the way to start an apology.”

“Don’t knock it till you try it,” Peter said, smirking at him.

A soft knock at the door caught his attention, and Peter went to answer it, after unlocking Stiles’ wheel brakes.  Scott stepped into the room, looking at his shoes, long brown hair flopping over his eyes.  “I’ll just leave you two alone, shall I?” Peter said, making his way around Scott to the door.

“Where are you going?” Stiles asked, panicked.  Peter was his escape route, he didn’t want to be left alone.

“Just to the cafeteria for a coffee.  I’ll be in shouting range if you need me,” he said, smiling fondly at Stiles before he left the room.

“Would you like to go for a walk?” Stiles asked, exhaling hard enough that his shoulders drooped.  He didn’t know what to say.  How was he supposed to apologize for something he didn’t remember doing?  How could he make it better?  Isaac was dead… there was no making that better.

“Sure,” Scott said with a sigh, grabbing the handles of Stiles’ chair and starting to push.

“I can push myself, it’s okay,” he protested, not wanting to guilt Scott into being nice to him.

“You’re not supposed to exert yourself,” Scott said dryly, like he was reciting a lecture he had just gotten from his mother.  “It’s fine.”

“Thank you,” Stiles said, not turning his head to look at his friend until they were outside, Stiles’ chair parked next to a bench.  Scott took a seat, but he sat stiffly, like he was poised to make a run for it.  They sat in silence for a few minutes, Stiles tapping his foot almost obsessively until he managed to string a few words together.

“I’m sorry,” he said, hating how woefully inadequate the words sounded.  It was now or never, and present Stiles needed to repair what past Stiles had broken.  “I know that’s not enough, and that probably nothing could ever be enough to make up for what happened between us, but I want you to know that I am really, and truly sorry.”

Scott didn’t respond.  He didn’t even look in Stiles’ direction.

“I shouldn’t have run.  I should have stayed and made sure you were okay after what happened with Isaac.  You know I don’t remember… well, anything… but Peter explained it to me the best that he could, and I think he told me the truth.  I was in really bad shape and I snapped.  I reacted poorly, and I shouldn’t have run.”

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Scott said, jaw rigid and angry.

“I was afraid.  I had fucked up monumentally and I didn’t think you or anyone else would ever forgive me, so when you told me to get out, I did.  I know now that wasn’t what you meant, but at the time, it must have felt like a dismissal.”

“We just wanted you to lay low for a while.  We didn’t want you to leave and never come back.”

“I know that now, but I think back then, I needed an excuse to leave all the bad memories behind and you gave me one.  I don’t remember everything you do, but I definitely remember how I felt after the Nogitsune, like I was trapped in my own body, that I was out of control, and that it would be so easy for me to hurt one of you, to hurt my dad.”

“You _did_ hurt your dad,” Scott pointed out, voice bitter and sharp.

“I realize that, and it breaks my heart that I missed out on Dad and your mom’s wedding, and every other good thing that happened to you.  It kills me that I don’t even know who your fiancée is.  We were supposed to be brothers, and I messed that up,” Stiles said, wondering if it would help to take all the blame for himself.  It wasn't like he remembered it anyway.  It wouldn't be hard to pretend it was true.  If that's what Scott needed to be his friend again, Stiles could take one for the team.  He needed his brother back if he was ever going to survive without his memories.

“It wasn’t just you,” Scott said, taking the opening to share the burden of guilt.  “I messed up too. I should have been a better friend to you after the Nogitsune.  I was just so deep in my Allison depression and wasn’t thinking about anything else.  Then Isaac... I pushed you away and you ran right into Peter’s arms.  I can’t believe I let that happen.”

“Hey, I don’t blame you for being upset after Allison died, but we’re going to need to get one thing straight,” Stiles said, pulling on one of the wheels of his chair until he was facing Scott.

“What’s that?” Scott asked, eyebrows high up on his forehead.

“Peter didn’t do anything wrong here.  I did.”

“He ran off with you when you were 18!  He didn’t even let you call home!  I can’t believe you trust that guy!”  Scott called, inching closer to the edge of the bench.

“It was my choice, not his.  I didn’t call home because I didn’t want to.  At first I was just afraid and didn’t want to risk anyone coming after me, and afterward, I was just ashamed,” Stiles said.  Even without his memories, it was easy enough for him to know what had prompted his departure from Beacon Hills.  He also knew that Scott and Peter would never be friends, but he couldn’t let Scott blame his husband for everything that had gone wrong in the past decade.  It just wasn’t fair.

“Ashamed of what? That you’d been sleeping with Peter?” Scott asked, incredulous.  “I think we’re all ashamed of that.”

“No, not that,” Stiles said immediately.  “And I won’t have you laying into Peter like that all the time.  I married him for a reason.  He’s been by my side this entire time.  He’s the only one that’s stood by me through everything, and I know you’re probably never going to believe that or appreciate what he means to me, but it’s the truth.”

“I just don’t get it, Stiles,” Scott said, shaking his head.  “He’s a murderer!  How can you love someone like that?”

“I’m a murderer, too,” Stiles whispered, shoulders falling.  He was exhausted.  “Can you love me?”

“Of course I love you, man!  That’s why I’ve been so mad at you!”  Scott said, laying a hand on Stiles’ forearm.

“Then why is it so hard to believe that I love Peter?” Stiles asked, realizing for the first time since he’d woken up in this life that he meant it.  He wasn’t sure it was the same kind of love that he used to have for Peter, and he was absolutely sure it wasn’t to the same depth, but he did think he loved the man in some capacity.

“Because it’s Peter!” Scott said, sticking his tongue out and making a disgusted face.

“Look,” Stiles said, expression stern.  His head was starting to pound and he was hearing that whistling again.  He needed to wrap this apology up quickly.  “I know you’re not going to love him or anything, and I don’t need you to, but you’re going to have to at least be courteous and civil.  The man is my husband for fuck's sake!”

“I don’t see a ring on your finger,” Scott pointed out.

Stiles rubbed at the tan line on his finger, wishing Peter had given the ring back, at least for this conversation.  “I don’t want to wear it until I’ve earned it,” he said eventually.

“Oh God,” Scott said, pretending to vomit.  “I don’t even want to know what you have to do to earn it.”

“I just meant I’d like to give him time enough to want to ask me, since I asked him the first time, apparently.”

“ _You_ asked _him_?” Scott asked, sounding appalled.  Stiles wasn’t fooled.  His mouth was curling into a smile even as he spoke, eager to hear the dirty details.  It seemed that Scott was finally coming around.

“I sprung it on him, actually,” Stiles said, smiling.  It definitely sounded like something he would do.  He just wished he had remembered it.  He would have loved to have seen Peter’s face.

“I can’t believe you’ve been married for ten years,” Scott said, sounding far away in thought.

“Me neither.  And I fucked up our anniversary dinner by getting knocked on the head.”

“I’m sure you’ll be able to make it up to him eventually,” Scott offered, much kinder than Stiles had expected him to be.

“I hope so,” Stiles said, thinking about what he would be able to do to romance the man in the future, with or without his memories.  “Speaking of which,” he said, turning back to face his friend.  “Is there anything I can do to make it up to you? I know I missed out on a lot, and I have some epic groveling to do.”

“You could be my best man,” Scott suggested nonchalantly, though the twinkle in his eye gave him away.

“You’re kidding!” Stiles said, punching him in the bicep.

“Nah. Derek’s been trying to get out of it for months.  I’m sure he’d love to give the job away,” Scott said, smile growing wider by the second.

“I’d love to,” Stiles said, tears prickling his eyes as Scott wrapped him up in one of his signature bear hug squeezes.  “I need to meet your girl, though!”

“I’ll bring her by next week,” Scott offered, arms still wrapped tightly around Stiles’ shoulders.  “You’ll still be here, right?”

“Unfortunately…” Stiles said, wishing he had werewolf healing, just this once.  “I have two more weeks left at least.  I think they’ll let me start walking myself soon, though.”

“Did they say when they thought your memory might come back?” Scott asked, ever the hopeful one.

“It might not ever come back, Scotty,” Stiles said, wincing a little at the thought.  “We need to be prepared for the worst.”

“It won’t be the worst,” Scott said, smiling reassuringly.  “You’ll have a fresh start.”

“I admire your optimism,” Stiles said, not entirely convinced.

“I hear Peter coming,” Scott said, standing up.  “So I think I’ll get going.  One Alpha at a time is probably a good general rule for now.  I’ll come by next week with Amelia, though.  She’ll be so happy to meet you.”

“Okay, bro,” Stiles said, grateful that Scott leaned down to give him an extra hug before departing.  He watched Scott walk back to the parking lot, relieved and hopeful.

“That seemed to have gone well,” Peter said, coming up behind his chair.  He stopped short of wrapping his arms around Stiles’ neck, though the urge to do so was strong.

“I don’t think he’ll be challenging you to a duel anytime soon, so that’s progress,” Stiles said, chuckling.  His chair shook a little as Peter took the handles and began pushing him back toward his room. “Where are we going? You finally going to make good on your promise of a hot shower?” Stiles teased.

In truth, he still wasn’t sure he was ready for Peter to see him naked, especially not as weak and helpless as he was.  It was bad enough having to sit in the stupid shower seat when the nurses let him bathe.  It looked like a toilet and was meant for the geriatric, not a thirty-year-old man.

“I thought maybe we could watch another movie,” Peter corrected him.  “Melissa told me off.  There is to be ‘no sexing in the hospital.’  Her words, not mine.”

“Spoilsport,” Stiles joked, though it made his heart race to even think about it.

If Peter noticed, he didn’t comment on it, content to push Stiles back to his room at a leisurely pace.  When they got back, Peter took his time pulling up the movie on his laptop and setting it at the foot of Stiles’ bed, angled so they could both see the screen, though Stiles wasn’t supposed to be focusing on it.

“You’re going to hate this one,” Peter said with a smile as the _Avengers: Age of Ultron_ menu came up on the screen.

“I’d hate it less if you’d sit with me,” Stiles said, hoping he sounded braver than he felt.  If he was ever going to be intimate with his husband again, he needed to get over his fears.  They were just bodies.  Sure, Peter’s was rock hard and perfect, and his was pale and virginal, but they were just bodies all the same.  Peter’s enhanced senses meant he was probably always going to know what Stiles’ body was doing, and he just needed to accept that fact and move on.  The wolf had already proven that he could be polite and ignore Stiles’ unintentional broadcasting when necessary, so he really didn’t know what he was so worried about.

Taking a deep, steadying breath, Stiles scooted over to one side of the bed, leaving barely enough room for Peter to squeeze in next to him.

“You’re sure?” Peter asked, eyeing him skeptically.

“I’m sure,” Stiles said, patting the open space on the mattress.  “I know you’re dying to rub the hospital smell off of me, so we might as well get a cuddle in.”

“Might as well,” Peter said, shrugging one shoulder while smirking slightly.  He kicked off his expensive loafers and sat down on the edge of the bed.  Stiles held the laptop in the air so Peter could swing his legs on top of the blanket.  Moving instinctively, Peter put one arm around Stiles’ shoulders and guided his bandaged head onto his chest.  Stiles got the feeling that they slept in this position a lot.  It felt familiar and comforting, and while he was interested to see how bad the movie really was, he felt himself doze off about a half hour in.


	14. You Make it So Easy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoiler Alert: I don't speak Polish, but there are only a few words of it in this chapter, along with many Polish foods and traditions. I'm not so good with languages, but food... I know my food.  
> Also: I went with Stiles' new canon first name for this story, because I don't mind it and it worked for me.

Stiles had no sense of time passing, and since he didn’t have any idea what the date was when he had first been injured, he was more than surprised to learn that it was Easter Sunday.  His father had stopped by on his way back from church that morning to tell him that everyone was coming to his room later for dinner.  

“Who’s cooking?” Stiles asked, wondering what Melissa’s version of Easter dinner was.  The Stilinskis had long since stopped bothering to make any of his mother’s recipes, but he kind of hoped maybe his dad would stop by the Polish restaurant and bring him some carryout dishes.  

“Peter, of course,” John said, like it was obvious.

“Peter cooks?” Stiles asked, wondering when the surprises would cease.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” John said, forehead crinkling as he looked his son over.  “You feeling alright?”

“Just as good as usual, hole in the head notwithstanding,” Stiles said, pointing to his bandaged head.  They changed the dressing every day, so it always looked clean and white, his too long hair flopping out in tufts all over the place.  He had it on good authority from the nurses that he looked absolutely ridiculous.

“Alright,” John answered, giving him a parting pat on the shoulder.  “Everyone will be by around five.  Get some rest until then.”

“Okay, Dad,” Stiles said, sighing heavily.  It was only 11.  He had no idea what to do with himself for the next six hours.  He was tempted to pull out the photo album again and attempt to jog his memory, but there didn’t seem to be much of a point.  He didn’t know Peter cooked.  He didn’t know anything.  Putting his earbuds in, Stiles listened to music until he fell back asleep.

At five o’clock on the dot, Melissa and his dad came through his door.  Melissa had clearly gone home to change, and looked lovely in an Easter dress and white sweater.  His dad looked happier than Stiles had ever seen him, wearing his “Easter shirt,” the pastel plaid monstrosity that his mother had bought him when Stiles was six, if he recalled correctly.  Stiles smiled when he saw it.  He was surprised it still existed, having not seen his dad pull it out of the closet in a good many years.  

“Wesołych Świąt Wielkanocnych, Mieczysław ” his dad whispered into his hair as he hugged Stiles.

“Happy Easter,” Melissa echoed, coming over to kiss Stiles on the cheek.  “Peter will be here in a second.  Scott and Amelia are helping him with the food.”

“Great,” Stiles said, excited to eat something homemade.  “I’m starving.”

A few minutes later, the rest of the party arrived.  Peter was laden with several large tin foil pans and a cake carrier, while Scott was carrying a crock pot, and his fiancée held drinks and disposable place settings.

“Stiles,” Scott said, dropping his bags on an empty chair.  “This is Amelia.  Amelia, this is my best friend, Stiles.”

“It’s so nice to meet you,” Stiles said, wishing he was allowed to get out of his bed and greet her.  

“I’ve been waiting years to meet you,” she said, going to his bedside and taking one of his hands.   _ Years _ , he thought.  They’d been together a long time.  Stiles was sad to have missed it all, although if Scott had been anything like when he was with Allison, maybe it was better to have missed the gushing.  To Stiles’ surprise, she pulled him into a soft, short hug.  

“I’m sorry it’s taken so long,” Stiles said sincerely.  “And I wish it could be under better circumstances.”

“We’re just so glad you’re alright,” Amelia said, kissing his cheek.  “Scott was terrified when he heard you’d been hurt.”  Stiles noticed that she was beautiful, but far from what Stiles would have considered Scott’s type.  She was blonde, for one, and quite a bit taller than him, with broad shoulders.  He wondered if she knew about werewolves, or if she was one herself.  

“He was, huh?” Stiles asked, blushing.  Scott smiled back.  It seemed like the awkwardness and hostility between them was over.    

“Are we late?” a voice asked from the doorway.  Maybe the awkwardness wasn’t over.  It was Derek and he was—holy shit—holding hands with none other than Lydia Martin, who clearly hadn’t aged a day in ten years.

“Right on time,” Peter said happily, uncovering the serving dishes.  

Lydia practically ran over to Stiles, throwing her arms around him.  He was completely and utterly relieved.  Apparently Lydia had understood what had happened in the past and wasn’t mad.  Actually, Stiles wouldn’t have been surprised if Peter had been talking to her all along.  It was something she would have done, sneaking around and checking up on him surreptitiously.

“Hey Lyds,” Stiles murmured into her hair, taking in the bright, fruity scent of her shampoo.  It was the same brand as always.  

“I could kick you,” she said, voice betraying the fact that she was crying into his shoulder.  

“Please don’t,” Stiles said, rubbing his hands along her back, soothing her.  She felt so small in his arms now.  He had grown and put on muscle, but she had stayed exactly the same height and size.  

Never one for talking about feelings, Derek just held up a bowl and asked, “borscht?”  He put the bowl down on Stiles’ tray with a smile, letting him continue to hug his… girlfriend?  Wife?  Stiles honestly had no idea what was happening anymore.  Sure, it made a certain kind of sense, beautiful people tended to flock together, and they were both privy to the supernatural, but he would never have bet on that couple getting together.

“When did this happen?” Stiles asked, pointing at Lydia’s back and raising his eyebrows.  

“Not too long ago, actually,” Derek answered.  

“Well that makes me feel a little bit better, I guess,” Stiles said as Lydia reluctantly pulled away.  She turned to face the wall for a minute, and Stiles could tell from the motion of her elbows that she was wiping the makeup from under her eyes.

“Derek and I got together about six months ago.  I ran into him in L.A.” she said, taking his hand again.  

“What were you doing in L.A.?” Stiles asked, completely baffled.

“Catching a baseball game,” Derek said, shrugging.  

“I can’t believe you went to a Dodgers game without me,” Stiles teased, picking up his spoon.  

“He’s being modest,” Lydia said, smiling fondly.  “He’s an assistant batting coach.”

“No shit,” Stiles said, dropping his spoon back into the bowl.  

“Shit,” Derek said flatly, practically oozing pride, though his face didn’t show it.

“Well he couldn’t very well play himself,” Peter said, like he had been in contact with them all along.  Stiles was going to have to have a serious chat with him once everyone had left for the night.

Stiles narrowed his eyes and pointed between Amelia and Scott, hoping someone would clue him in.

“It’s okay, Stiles,” Melissa said softly.  “Amelia’s an empath.”

“Seriously?” Stiles asked, mouth hanging open.  

“Seriously,” Scott echoed, squeezing the woman’s hand gently before going to help himself to a plate of food.  

Remembering there was something in front of him, Stiles’ nose twitched as he tried to figure out what the rest of the dishes are.  As it was, white borscht was a big surprise.  He hadn’t known anyone but his mother to bother making it.  He picked up his spoon and took a bite, it was very hot, and almost exactly as he remembered.  The biala kielbasa and cabbage burst with flavor in his mouth and the rye bread croutons had a very satisfying crunch. 

Just as he was tilting the bowl to get the last spoonful, Peter came over with a plate for him, heaping with sour cream and dill cucumbers, pickled red cabbage, and a roasted lamb shank.  “I think I’ve died and gone to heaven,” he said, happily accepting the plate.  “Everything smells incredible.”

“Would you like some bread, too?” Lydia asked from across the room where she was slicing the thick loaf.  It had dyed eggs woven in.  

“You made Easter bread?” Stiles asked Peter, head tilted a bit to the side.  

“Your dad made sure I had your mom’s recipes,” he said, taking a seat on the edge of Stiles’ bed near his hip, sharing his tray table.  

“I can’t believe you dyed Easter eggs.  Who are you, even?” Stiles joked, smiling around a bite of lamb.  

“Your husband,” Peter answered easily, pressing a kiss to Stiles’ cheek.  “I’ve cooked for you before,” he said softly, voice blending in with the rest of the chatter in the room.  “Our first Christmas together, you were so upset that you wouldn’t be with your father, even though you were trying to hide it.”  

Stiles stole a little horseradish off Peter’s plate and continued eating as he spoke.  Peter was smiling, face warm and a little flushed.  For a minute, he almost  _ looked _ like Christmas, the reminiscence seeming to brighten his expression.  

“I didn’t manage to make the whole twelve courses.  And the herring was a disaster,” he chuckled, humble and sweet.  “But I think the perogies and makowiec turned out well enough.  You taught me to leave an extra plate out for dinner, and the other traditions.  I think it made you feel a little better, to celebrate, even if it was just us.”

Everyone pulled up a chair and held their plates close to their faces to eat.  It was still a hospital, but it felt comfortable and homey.  Stiles relaxed back into his pillows, full of delicious food, and spent the next half hour listening to stories of Derek and Lydia’s travels and Amelia’s family.  It felt like he had a pack again, a real one, not the broken thing they had after the Nogitsune.  He found himself putting an arm around Peter, pulling the man back against the pillows with him.  Scott barely made a face, and the rest of them didn’t seem to find it odd that they were touching.  

“Ready for dessert?” John asked, clapping his hands together.  

“Yes, please,” Stiles said, eager to see what else Peter had made.  He must have been cooking for at least two days, judging by how long the cucumbers were pickled.  Even the horseradish was freshly made.  

“Your dad let me use your mom’s cast iron,” Peter said, fussing with something on the table with his back to the group.  

“You didn’t,” Stiles said in awe.  He didn’t think anyone had touched the cake pan in years.

“I did,” John said, smiling with his arm around Melissa.  “Pulled it out of the attic last week.”

Peter turned, holding a messily decorated lamb-shaped cake, complete with green coconut grass underneath.  He was twisting his lips, nearly smiling, but not quite.  “I’m not really good with a piping bag, but I think ‘ol Norman here came out alright.”

“You named the lamb Norman?” Derek asked, eyebrows raised.  

“Stiles always named the lamb,” John filled in, watching avidly as Peter laid the serving dish on Stiles’ tray table and handed him a knife.  

“Would you like to do the honors?” Peter asked, holding a small disposable plate out for the first piece.  

“Who wants Norman’s butt!?” Stiles called, laughing as he sliced off the end of the cake.  

“Dibs!” Scott yelled, holding his hand out.  

John faked a pout, but Stiles just laughed and took a minute to explain the outburst to Amelia.

“The butt is the part of the cake with the most frosting,” he said, licking a bit of stray frosting off his finger as he flipped the piece onto the plate.

“I see,” Amelia said, giggling.  “Very important.”

“I also made sernik,” Peter said as Stiles continued slicing.

“Yes, please,” Stiles said immediately.  He could almost taste the sweet tang of the cheese in his mouth when Peter said the word.  Lamb cake was all well and good, but it had nothing on the dense richness of the traditional cheesecake.  He scarfed down his slice of lamb in a few bites and held out his plate to Peter, who took it and cut Stiles a slice of the walnut covered cheesecake.  

Stiles made grabby hands, the rest of the group laughing as Peter held the slice just out of his reach.  

“Hand it over, wolfman,” he said with a fake serious face.  

“What do I get for it?” Peter asked, raising his eyebrow.

“The appreciation of a grateful husband.  I’m injured, don’t argue with me,” Stiles said, snapping his fingers.

“Alright,” Peter relented, lowering the plate until Stiles could take it, pausing for a second to kiss his husband’s cheek.  He went around the room collecting plates and asking who else wanted a piece.  

“I see who’s the Alpha in that relationship,” Amelia teased, stage whispering into Scott’s ear.  

Peter flashed his teeth at her, but she just laughed, apparently unphased by the fact that she was in a room full of werewolves.  

“I like her,” Stiles said, pointing a cheese covered fork at Scott.  “You should keep her.”

“I plan to,” he said, smiling.  

Lydia held out her hand, and Amelia understood the gesture perfectly.  She dropped her left hand into Lydia’s outstretched one so the redhead could inspect her engagement ring.

“Good job, McCall,” she said, pursing her lips.  

“I thought so too,” Amelia said, pressing a kiss to Scott’s cheek.  

“Stiles is going to be my best man,” Scott said, smiling the big goofy smile at a relieved looking Derek.

“Oh, thank God,” Derek sighed.  “I think Lyds would have murdered me if I screwed anything up.  I’m very happy to step down.”

“When is the big day?” Stiles asked.  It was odd to him that after all these weeks, he still had no idea what was going on more than half of the time.

“August second,” Scott answered, staring lovingly at Amelia.

“Where?” Stiles asked, starting to get a little frustrated that he was lacking details.  Peter shot him a look from the table where he was cleaning up.  The damn wolf could probably hear a change in his breathing.

“Denver,” Scott said, reluctantly turning back to Stiles.  “That’s where Amelia’s from, and not many people are coming for me besides who’s already in this room.”

“I’ve never been,” Stiles said, hopeful.  He’d never learned to ski, and he was pretty sure he’d be horrible at it, but it sounded like it could be fun.

“We have, actually,” Peter said softly, taking Stiles’ hand.  

Suddenly, the room felt very small, much too small for Stiles’ expanding emotions.  His eyes darted around the room, searching for anything that might put him at ease.  Locking eyes with Amelia, Stiles' worry started to grow.  There was a small smile on her face, but Stiles could see that she was starting to tear up.  His chest constricted painfully and he squeezed down hard on Peter’s hand.  

“I think it’s time we let Stiles get some rest,” John said, catching the concern in Peter’s eye.  He stood up and folded up his chair, leaning it against the wall near the door.  Melissa followed him as they loaded Derek and Scott up with the leftovers and made to leave.  

“We’ll be back tomorrow for Wet Monday breakfast, okay?” Amelia said, hand clutched in her blouse like she was also having trouble breathing.  Stiles was startled to realize that maybe she was, and that made him panic even more.  

“Isn’t that when we do a wet tee shirt contest?” Scott asked as he was hurried out the door by his mother.

“Not exactly,” John said, explaining the tradition to the group as they walked down the hall and back to the parking lot.  

“It’s okay.  It’s just you and me now,” Peter said, wrapping his other hand around their clenched ones.  

“Can she feel this?” Stiles asked, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to slow his breathing.  

Peter kissed his knuckles and took a deep, exaggerated breath, letting Stiles follow his lead.  “She’s fine, don’t worry about her,” he said, silky voice doing little to calm Stiles down.  

“I—” Stiles gasped, words caught in his throat.  “—I’ve made a great—first impression.”

“She loves you, just like Scott does.  Try not to worry,” Peter soothed, climbing onto the bed next to Stiles until he could wrap his arms around his husband.  

“Did I—did I give her a panic attack?” he asked, breaths coming a little slower and deeper.  

“No,” Peter assured him.  He would have been able to tell.  “She has very good control.  She was just worried about you.”

“I forgot we went to Denver,” Stiles said, wheezing a little still, but fighting off the worst of it.  “What were we doing there?”

“You wanted to see if anyone had managed to make werewolf-weed,” Peter said, chuckling at the memory.

“Did they?” Stiles asked, finally calm.  He rested his forehead against Peter’s throat and breathed in the scent of his cologne.  

“No,” Peter said, kissing his temple.  “But that didn’t stop you from trying.  You’d come up with terrible code words and were asking every shop owner for puppy phish, wolf-haze or something like that.”

Stiles tried to laugh, but it came out as another wheeze.  He felt Peter shift on the sheets, and then the sound of his loafers hitting the floor.  Very carefully, Peter got under the covers and slid his arm beneath Stiles’ neck, curling up behind him.  Stiles was sure a nurse would come to kick him out eventually, but he prayed they wouldn’t.  He fell asleep just like that, wrapped up in Peter’s arms, matching the wolf’s even, deep breaths.


	15. The Trouble with You Is, I Can't Say No

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of the chapters between here and the end are a really short. I broke this story up a little differently than usual, and each scene is its own chapter instead of there being scene breaks within chapters. Sorry if you feel short-changed as things go on when you get a short chapter. If I have more chapters done I'll try to post more than three a week to make up for it. Thanks for sticking with me!

Finally, the day came when Stiles’ skull piece would be replaced.  He asked Peter to buzz the rest of his hair off, having long tired of the deranged owl look he was sporting.  A few hours later, Stiles was waking up from anesthesia, several staples heavier.  Peter was sitting by his bedside again, reading his kindle.

“Any other Stiles Stilinski originals on there?” he asked blearily, trying to sit up.  

Peter dropped the device and stood to help him, raising the back of his bed until he was upright.  

“Not that I’ve noticed, but you do have an awful lot of composition notebooks lying around the townhouse you could look in when we get home.”

“Right,” Stiles said, squinting his eyes and trying not to touch his bandage.  “Home.”

“I’m sure your father and Melissa wouldn’t mind if you wanted to stay here for a few extra days.  We don’t have to leave yet if you’re not comfortable,” Peter offered, grabbing a cup of water and a straw and holding it up to Stiles’ mouth.

“Yeah, I guess,” Stiles said, taking a small sip.  “But the doctor told us to get back to our normal routine.  See if anything jogs my memory.  And as much as I’d like to spend time with my dad, that’s not our normal routine.  How long have you been out of work, anyway?”

“Not long enough, as far as I’m concerned,” Peter said with a laugh.  “We don’t need the money.  I can stay home with you until you’re ready to head back to work.  You have to get your staples removed in a week, and then it’s ‘normal activities as tolerated,’” he read from a page of post-operative instructions.  “Nothing that could get you injured for 6 more weeks, though.”

“But I can work?” Stiles asked, biting at the inside of his cheek.  “What does that leave?” Stiles asked, not at all sure what he even did for work.  “Yoga?”

“And pilates, and zumba,” Peter added, trying not to laugh at the disgruntled face Stiles was giving him.

“I don’t know how to do yoga,” Stiles whined, flopping back against the mattress in exasperation.  “And I don’t even know what pilates is,” he said, covering his face with one hand.  

The odd sensation of metal on skin drew his attention.  Peter had given him his ring back, slipped it on his finger while he was unconscious.  He looked between the ring and Peter’s face, but the man was still flipping through the packet of instructions as he spoke.  Stiles didn’t know what to think.  He was caught somewhere between happy and terrified.  Things had been going well between the two of them for the past week or so, but Stiles was somewhat surprised to find that Peter felt confident enough in their relationship to give him his ring back.  

“It’s like amped up yoga.  Core training and stuff.  You do it on a mat and with resistance bands sometimes.  We can watch your videos when we get home.”

“I have videos?” he asked, peering at Peter, utterly bewildered.  He had forgotten what they were talking about.

“You have a YouTube channel, actually,” Peter said, wagging his eyebrows.

“I do not!” Stiles groaned, rolling his head on his neck like he was rolling his eyes.

“Oh yes you do,” Peter said, laughing.  “How do you think you got so popular?”

“I assumed it was from telling tales of our sex life, because that’s apparently something I do,” Stiles said, twisting his lips.  “I think it’s probably your dick I have to thank for my popularity.”

“Trust me, you do plenty with your dick, too,” Peter teased, winking at him.  “Why should I let you have all the fun?”

Stiles paused, mouth open as he considered Peter’s words, all thoughts of wedding rings flying out the window.  Peter let him top?  He’d never even considered it, didn’t think it would be on the table.  Was that even what Peter meant, or was he reading too much into it?

“You just have to stay one more night here since you were under anesthesia, and then we’re free to go,” Peter said, patting Stiles’ hand.

“Could you grab me some real clothes?  Do I keep any here?” Stiles asked, not wanting to leave the hospital in scrubs or ratty sweatpants.  

“I can go shopping for some,” Peter offered, standing up and patting his back jean pocket to check for his wallet.  “Do you want anything specific?”

“You don’t have to leave right now,” Stiles said, frowning when Peter glanced toward the door.  “What other restrictions did they give me?”

“No driving for a few days, until you’re off your pain meds.  Don’t use a hair dryer or you’ll burn yourself with your staples, not that I’ve ever seen you use one.  Do everything else at your own pace.  That’s about it,” Peter said, reading from the list.  “Change your dressing every day, and you can leave it to heal after they take the staples out.”

“Anything else?” Stiles asked, glancing at the paper.  He tried to read it himself, but it made his head pound.  

“If you have a fever, slurred speech, loss of any basic functions, seizure, etc., head back to the hospital,” Peter said, pointing to the last paragraph.  

“Let’s hope we’re done with this.  I’d like to never see the inside of a hospital ever again,” Stiles said with a sigh.  He closed his eyes and just listened to Peter’s voice, wondering what it would be like to live with the man full time.  It seemed he only had one night left before married life became a reality.

“We can just go to your regular doctor to get the staples taken out.  I’d like to get out of here too,” Peter said, sitting back down in the chair.  “Want me to read to you?  You should rest.”

“Sure,” Stiles said, jerking in surprise when Peter pressed the button to lower his bed again.  “Make it  _ The Princess Bride _ this time.”

“As you wish,” Peter replied, and pulled out a worn copy of the novel.


	16. In the Mood to Lose My Way with Words

After a quick goodbye from Melissa and John, Stiles and Peter were back on the road to San Francisco.  The car made him dizzy, so Stiles spent most of the drive with his eyes closed.  The silence was nice.  Peter didn’t feel the need to fill it with chatter or music, though he did keep one hand on Stiles’ thigh the entire time they were in the car.  It was warm and grounding, and the rocking of the car quickly put Stiles to sleep.

They got back late in the afternoon, and Peter realized their fridge was completely disgusting.  He threw everything out and ordered Chinese food.  Stiles felt odd.  He didn’t recognize anything in their home, didn’t know what their address was.  He didn’t even know which side of the couch he usually sat on.  Thankfully, Peter sat down first and solved that problem for him, but the rest of them still remained.  Stiles was a stranger to this life.  

After dinner, Peter cleaned up and turned on the TV.  He had clicked on an app and navigated to Stiles’ YouTube page.  Stiles cringed.  It was peppy with loud dance music and complicated choreography that completely clashed with his dark mood.  

“You can fiddle around with this if you want,” Peter said, standing up.  “I’ve got to make a quick call to the office.”  

Stiles took the keyboard, but was feeling pretty apathetic.  He clicked on a few videos and immediately shut them all off, not wanting to watch himself.  It was like watching an alien wearing his skin.  Stiles had no idea how to move like that, how he had memorized all the steps and positions.  Eventually, he found his own favorites list and clicked on a yoga video that he had labeled “great for beginners.”  

He supposed it looked easy enough.  He’d probably have to beg off doing downward facing dog, but the rest of it didn’t look too bad.  The music was soothing, and he fell asleep again.

Peter carried him to bed, laid him down on the expensive sheets, and shut off the light.  

Stiles woke up alone.  His head was pounding, but he found his bottle of pain pills on the bedside table along with a glass of water.  Popping two into his mouth, he swallowed, wincing at the bitter taste.  He shuffled out to the living room to find Peter asleep on the couch, curled up under an afghan.   

Deciding to let sleeping wolves lie, Stiles continued on to the kitchen in search of coffee.  There was a french press and some expensive looking beans, but they were whole and he didn’t want the grinder to wake Peter.  The same cabinet also held a variety of loose leaf tea.  He opened each pouch, smelling them until he found one he liked, and put on the tea kettle.  

Stiles was tired.  He was in pain, and everything felt off.  He didn’t even know where the spoons were in his own house.  Leaning against the stainless steel refrigerator, Stiles ducked his head, letting the cool metal soothe his skin.  He was contemplating going back to bed when Peter snuck up on him.  

“Morning,” Peter said, pulling him in by the hips and pressing a kiss to his mouth.  

Surprised, Stiles stiffened and pulled away.  The kettle started whistling and he used it as an excuse to turn his back to Peter.  

“I’m sorry,” Peter said, palms on the counter and head hung low.  “Habit.”

“It’s okay,” Stiles said, filling the small clay teapot and checking the package for steeping instructions.  “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” Peter said quickly, giving Stiles a reassuring look.  “I wasn’t too deeply asleep.”

“You haven’t been sleeping this whole time, have you?” Stiles asked, angry with himself for being so thoughtless.  These days, he flitted so quickly from one emotion to another, he scarcely knew what his own reaction might be to any given stimuli.  It was disorienting and also worrying.  He bit his lip, wondering if Peter felt as unbalanced as he did, teetering like a seesaw on a windy day.

“Not much,” Peter said, scratching at the back of his neck.  His shirt rode up a bit, and Stiles felt his face flush pink.  

“You should have taken the bed,” Stiles said, pulling two cups from the cabinet.  

“You’re injured,” Peter said simply, not giving any room for argument.

“You could have slept with me,” Stiles pointed out, as he located the sugar bowl and set it out next to the cups.

“You know where the sugar is?” Peter asked, voice audibly brighter than it had been a second ago.

Stiles hated to get his hopes up like that, but it wasn’t what Peter thought.  “When I don’t think about it… when I move on instinct?  It’s easier.  Call it muscle memory or something.”

“Oh,” Peter said, forehead crinkling in thought.  “Maybe the yoga won’t be as hard as you thought then,” he commented, turning off the timer on the microwave when it began to chime and pouring the tea.  

“It’s not something I can turn on and off,” Stiles barked.  “I couldn’t find a  _ spoon _ a minute ago.”

Peter set the teapot back down and stared at the counter.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said, putting a palm against Peter’s back, between his shoulder blades.  

Peter’s shoulders rolled as he shrugged off the touch.  Stiles dropped his hand immediately.  

“I’m just a little frustrated.  I shouldn’t have snapped at you,” Stiles muttered. 

“It's fine,” Peter said, but it sounded weak to Stiles’ ears.  The wolf was probably just as frustrated with him as he was with himself.  Stiles didn't blame Peter, he really didn't.  At least he didn't think he did. Everything was just so new and confusing. He didn't know what to feel. 

“It's not fine,” Stiles said back, stirring some sugar into his tea for something to do.  “You've been wonderful and I'm just… a little lost.”

“It's fine,” Peter said again, a little more convincing than the last time.  “It'll just take some time. We need to be more patient.”

“It might never be fine,” Stiles reminded him, wondering if it might be better for both of them not to get their hopes up.  Maybe if they just gave up now, it wouldn't hurt as much. 

“You might not get your memories back, but it  _ will  _ be fine,” Peter said, moving his hand a little closer to Stiles’ on the countertop, palm up in case the man wanted to take it.  “Either way I'll still be your husband and I'll still love you.”

“Thank you,” Stiles said, rubbing at Peter’s fingertips with his own. 

“Now,” Peter said cheerfully, reaching for his own tea.  “What would you like to do today. It's Sunday, so I don't have work until tomorrow.”

“Would you like to take me sightseeing?” Stiles asked shyly.  “I feel like a tourist around here.”

“Of course,” Peter said, giving him a small smile. “I’d love to.”


	17. You Can't Fast Forward, You Can't Slow it Down

After a long day of walking and seeing the sights, Peter and Stiles made it back to the townhouse and changed into sweatpants.  

“Do we only own the one floor?” Stiles asked, wondering why they never bothered going up the spiral staircase in the corner.  

“No, we own the whole house,” Peter said, holding the door open for him.  “Upstairs is guest rooms and a small studio you use on your off days sometimes.  It’s hard to keep you away from the gym, though.  Downstairs is mostly storage.  We don’t use it much.  Want to check it out?” he asked, nodding toward the stairs.

“Sure,” Stiles said, tired, but feeling a bit better than he had when he woke up.  He hadn’t heard any whistles or pops since his last surgery, and was hoping that was far behind him.  Following Peter up the staircase, Stiles made a conscious effort not to stare at the man’s ass.  They hadn’t discussed sex or been overly affectionate since they’d left the hospital, and Stiles had no idea what was on or off the table when it came to his husband’s body.  The man had been sleeping on the couch, and that didn’t seem like a good sign.

Peter led him into two rooms that were set up for guests, both with queen sized beds and inexpensive, but nice looking furniture.  

“Why did you sleep on the couch when there are two perfectly good beds up here?” Stiles asked, running a hand over the smooth wood of a modern footboard.

“Habit, I suppose,” Peter replied, eyes focused on the way Stiles’ fingers flitted over the furniture.  

“Do I kick you out of bed often?” Stiles teased, licking at his bottom lip thoughtfully.

“Not often,” Peter said, smirking to himself as he thought back.  “I meant it’s a long-running habit to be close in case of danger, close enough to wake up if there are changes in your heartbeat.”

“Oh,” Stiles said lamely, not missing the tension in Peter’s face.  Turning away, he took a peek into the extra bathroom, the laundry room, and his studio, which had several yoga mats and weights on the floor.  When they got to the last room, however, Stiles stopped in his tracks.  

It wasn’t like Peter was blocking him from entering the room, but he wasn’t showing it off either, so Stiles wasn’t sure how his husband felt about it.  The room was empty, no sign of furniture or anything else, but the walls were painted a pale yellow with pink flowers.  It could have been a little girl’s room, but something about the size and shape of it and the lack of a full closet made Stiles feel like it was meant to be a nursery.

“It was painted like this when we bought the place,” Peter said from the doorway, not bothering or willing to follow Stiles inside.  

“But we didn’t paint over it,” Stiles pointed out, wondering if that was intentional or in some way hopeful on their part.  “Were we planning to have children?” Stiles asked, clearly shaken by the thought.  It had never occurred to him, but they’d been married for ten years, surely they must have discussed it at some point.  

“We didn’t have any real plans, no,” Peter said, surveying his husband as Stiles pulled up the blinds and looked out the window at the moon.  

“The view would be nice,” Stiles said, pointing at the waxing gibbous.  “If they were a wolf.”

“You’ve brought up surrogacy in the past,” Peter said, alternating between biting his lip and looking at the floor.  “And adoption.”

He had been staring at the floor quite a lot in the past few weeks, and Stiles didn’t think it was normal behavior for him.  Peter never used to be timid.  He wasn’t sure if it was just the way Peter had aged, or if it had something to do with him, that Peter was afraid to tell him things now that he had lost his memory.

“You wanted me to be able to have a child that was a werewolf, but still yours too,” Peter said, massaging his own bicep where his arms were crossed over his chest.  “So you thought maybe we could find a woman from another pack who would be willing.”

“Did we find anyone?” Stiles asked, already curious about the possibility.  He still felt young, and not nearly ready to be a parent, but he could also sense the poorly disguised longing in Peter’s voice and body language.  The man wanted a baby, Stiles just knew it.  

“We hadn’t looked yet,” Peter said, making it clear that was as far as he and past Stiles had made it in the discussion.  “I wasn’t sure I’d be able to handle it, a woman with your scent inside her.”

“And we didn’t want to risk the complications of having a human woman carry your child,” Stiles filled in, understanding his own past thought process.  

“So we kind of were at a stand still on that topic,” Peter finished, turning like he was going to head back downstairs and out of the room.

“I wouldn’t want the baby to be so far away from us anyway,” Stiles said, taking one last glance around the nursery before following him.  “They should sleep on the same floor as us, at least.  These steps could be dangerous.”

“You seem to have a lot of opinions on the matter,” Peter pointed out, heading to their bedroom to change.  

“I didn’t think I would, because I don’t feel my age, but I do,” Stiles agreed, watching surreptitiously as Peter stepped out of his sweatpants, pulled off his sweater, and traded it for a soft v-neck.  “We could talk about it more,” he suggested, catching Peter’s arm as he made to leave the room again.  

“Maybe some other time,” Peter said.  He was hurt, and Stiles didn’t know why.  Was he trying too hard?  Making Peter feel like he was ready for something that they couldn’t handle?  Or did Peter just want a baby so badly it hurt to even discuss it with someone that wasn’t really his Stiles?

“Why don’t you sleep here tonight?” Stiles asked, still holding on to one of Peter’s wrists gently.  “I think we’ll both sleep better.”

“I’m not sure that’s such a good idea,” Peter said, exhaling heavily.  

“Why not?” Stiles asked.  They had slept in the same bed when he was in the hospital, and it had been fine.  “Has something changed?  Have I done something?”

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong,” Peter said, closing his eyes and taking his hand back.  “It’s just hard for me.”

“What’s hard?  Being with me?” Stiles asked, fear starting to creep into his voice.  

“Smelling you…” he trailed off.  There was a long silence in which Stiles started to panic.  “Loving you when you don’t love me,” Peter said finally, taking a step toward the door.

“Wait,” Stiles said, chasing after him again.  “I  _ do _ love you… somehow.”

Peter rolled his eyes, apparently not impressed with that answer.

“I just need more time,” Stiles pleaded, stepping forward to cup a hand around Peter’s cheek.  “When I say it, I want to make sure I mean it the way you mean it.  For sure.  Like I used to.  Okay?”

Peter didn’t answer.  His eyes were closed again, and his face looked pained, like he was trying not to cry.  It broke Stiles’ heart to see him like that, worn down and beaten, all from being in love with him.  It shouldn’t hurt so much to love someone.

“I want you.  I want to be with you,” Stiles said, rubbing his thumb across Peter’s cheek, willing him to open his eyes and look at him.  “I just need a little more time.  Please?”

Peter’s eyes flicked open at that, and Stiles leaned in for a kiss.  He needed Peter to know he was serious about him, and if a physical sign would reassure him, Stiles was willing to give it to him.  

Peter leaned into the kiss, wrapping his arms around Stiles’ neck as he pulled the man in.  It was long, and not dispassionate, but a complete gesture in itself.  The kiss didn’t need to go anywhere.  It was a symbol of affection and a show of comfort.  They took solace in each other for a few seconds before Stiles pulled away, giving Peter a smile.  

“Let me change and brush my teeth, and I’ll join you, okay?” he said, inclining his head toward the bed.  

Peter let out a sigh, but nodded.  “Okay,” he said quietly, pulling down the covers and slipping under the top sheet.  

Stiles took his time in the bathroom, putting his tee shirt in the hamper and brushing his teeth, then pulling his shirt back out of the hamper and covering his bare chest again.  He looked in the mirror.  There were still purple bags under his eyes, but the rest of the bruising on his face had faded over a week ago.  What was the most jarring was his hair.  

He unwrapped the bandage around his head and pulled back the gauze, making a face when a corner stuck to his skin.  Methodically, he went about cleaning his wound.  The staples and red line of the incision made him look a bit like Frankenstein's monster, made from broken pieces.  Stiles only hoped the doctors had managed to put him back together properly, because he still didn’t feel quite right yet.  

Stiles applied the salve and re-wrapped his head, pressing the tape down lightly until it stayed.  When he made it back to the bedroom, Peter was already asleep, curled up on his side, facing the bathroom door.  Stiles shut off the light and slipped into bed beside his husband.  He lay there on his back, unsure if his touch would be welcome, but in the end, his instincts prevailed.  Slowly and carefully, Stiles curled up behind Peter, bending his knees at the same angle and pillowing his head on his own arm.  After a few minutes of listening to the wolf’s even breathing, he fell asleep.


	18. The Trouble with Me is that I'm Always Running

The next day, Peter dropped him off at his gym on his way to the office.  Peter assured him he would be there to pick him up by four, but if he wanted to leave early, he could call for an Uber.  

Nervous beyond all reason, Stiles opened the glass door and entered the building.  It was a wide, open space, full of equipment, with several glass-walled rooms around the outside.  He could smell chlorine, and realized they must also have a pool somewhere.  A loft high up above him held rows of treadmills and rowing machines.  Stiles hefted his bag a little higher on his shoulder and walked to the front desk.

“Hello?” he asked the woman who was sitting there.  “I’m Stiles,” he said simply.  Not the best opener, but he wasn’t really feeling up to any deep conversation.  

The woman looked up from her computer, eyes bugging out of their sockets when she saw him.  She leapt up from her chair and ran around the desk to hug him.  More like nearly squeeze him to death with her very impressive biceps.  

“Thank God you’re alright,” she said into his ear, with more emotion than Stiles expected.  “Peter told us what happened, but it was still just such a shock.”  She released him and took a step back to better survey the damage.  

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be rude, but… who are you?” Stiles asked, eyebrows high on his forehead.  

“Oh God, it is true then.  You don’t remember anything,” she said, eyes softening as she looked at him.  

“Not the last ten years, no,” Stiles said, twisting his lips.  “Pretend I’ve never been here.  Pretend I’m new.  I think it’s easier that way.”

“Well,” she said, taking a deep breath and putting on a cheerful face.  “I’m Whitney, most people call me Whitt, but I’ll also answer to sugar, or sweet tits, or whatever you feel like calling me.”

Stiles nodded dumbly and then tilted his head to the side, needing more information.  

“I own this gym and a few others in the area that are managed by my kids,” she took him by the hand and led him around the rows of equipment.  Several people waved at him if their arms were free, and many others gave him a nod and smile while they did their reps.  Stiles waved back, for lack of anything better to do.  

“The men’s locker room is over here, and you usually use this classroom,” she said, stopping in front of one of the glass doors.  The room was full of middle-aged to older women doing some sort of floor exercise on mats.  The instructor waved at him, and then got back to teaching.  It seemed the walls were soundproof, because Stiles didn’t hear anything when she opened her mouth to order the class to change positions.  

“Back here is the employee lounge,” Whitt said, pulling him along.  “You can take your lunch and any other breaks in here.  This is the class schedule,” she said, pointing to a bulletin board on the wall.  “Bridgett took over some of your slots for yoga and the lighter stuff.  We didn’t have anyone to fill in for the other training classes, so those have just been suspended until you’re feeling better.”

“I’m sorry if I’ve lost you any business,” Stiles said, looking over the list, but not recognizing half the words or any of the names.  

“Don’t you worry about that,” Whitt said, patting him on the arm.  “You’ve brought in so many members over the years, I should really be paying you more.”

“I’m kind of just here to get back into a routine.  I don’t remember how to teach any of those things.  I was thinking of just using the machines and kind of… seeing what my body remembered.”

“That’s fine, honey,” she said, squeezing his forearm.  “You take all the time you need.”  

“If I can figure out how to do yoga, maybe I could try doing one of those classes next week?” Stiles offered, figuring he could actually watch some of the beginner’s videos he had saved on YouTube.  

“Whatever you feel comfortable with,” Whitt said, giving him a knowing smile.  “I bet half the women in your classes would come by just to see you sit there and tell them stories, they’re so in love with you and Peter.”

Stiles’ face must have fallen, because she squeezed his arm harder and said, “Oh sugar.  You and Peter aren’t having problems, are you?”

“Not problems so much as one problem,” Stiles said, biting his lip.  “The problem where I don’t remember being married to him, or being with him at all for that matter,” he joked, trying to make light of terrible situation.

“Oh, I’m sure it’ll all work out,” Whitt said, leading him back to the locker room and knocking on the wall before entering.  “You love each other so much.  You’ll get there.”

“Thanks, Whitt,” Stiles said, licking his lips.  He was more than ready to start running and burn off a little of his frustration.  

“Here’s your locker, honey,” she said, leading him over to one that was nearly as big as a closet in a separate room clearly meant for the instructors.  “I wrote down the combination for you, so you can take your time memorizing it.  Alright?”

“Thanks,” Stiles said, dropping his gym bag to the floor and sitting down on the bench, rolling his neck to release some of the tension he held there.  

“Have a good workout, and say goodbye before you leave, okay?” she said, turning to leave.  

“I will,” Stiles promised, kicking off his shoes.  

“If you need anything, just holler.  Any of our regulars would be happy to help you!” she called as she walked away, waving over her head at him.

Stiles sighed, not really feeling up to talking to anyone else unless absolutely necessary.  He suited up quickly, and headed upstairs, keeping his head down as to not incite any conversation.  Walking quickly, he chose a treadmill.  

Running.  Running was easy.  He could do running.  There wasn’t much for him to fuck up.  As long as he stayed on the machine and didn’t go flying into a wall, he’d be alright.  Stiles started slow and when he realized he wasn’t as tired as he thought, started to crank up the speed.  Eventually, he was running at 7 miles per hour and breathing heavily.  He kept at it for a long while, letting his mind quiet, and when he finally stopped, the screen read 8 miles.  

Immensely proud of himself and feeling the burn in his thighs, he hopped off the treadmill and made for the weight machines.  They were fairly self-explanatory, and while a few of the other gym-goers looked like they wanted to strike up a conversation, he gave them small, half-genuine smiles and kept his head down, hoping to avoid questions.  The last thing he wanted was to embarrass himself by needing someone to explain how he was doing something wrong.  Stiles already knew he was doing something wrong.  As far as he was concerned, he was doing everything wrong.

It turned out, Stiles was much stronger than he remembered.  He expected himself to be able to take a bit more weight than was typical of lacrosse training, but not over 100 pounds on all of the machines.  Just as he was thinking about taking a break, not sure how much would be too much as he had never really lifted before, the fitness class let out.  A wave of older women came pouring out of the glass room and headed straight toward him.  Stiles didn't want to say he was scared, he'd faced down werewolves and kanimas and shared a body with a thousand-year-old demon, little old ladies were not scary.  Except that they were.

"Stiles!" a few of them called, waving and charging forward toward him.  "You look like hell!" a woman toward the front of the pack called.  That brought up a bubble of laughter from the rest of the crowd, and most of them broke off into gossiping about him behind their hands.  

"Yeah well," he said, scratching at the back of his hair.  "Bashing your head in will do that."

"We were so worried about your accident!" another one said, coming up to give him an unwanted hug.  

"But we knew that husband of yours would be taking good care of you.  He's just the sweetest little thing," she commented, pressing a dry kiss to his cheek.  "And handsome, too."

"Yeah, he is," Stiles agreed, not knowing what else to say.

"Oh, you poor little lamb," another one said, patting him on the arm.  "You must be so confused.  Where are our manners?  Ladies?  Introduce yourselves.  I'm Beverly," the ringleader said, smiling kindly.  

"Charlene," the woman next to her said.  She had dyed strawberry blonde hair.  That might make it easier for Stiles to remember their names, picking out features and memorizing them.  It was already exhausting.

"Dolores," another woman said, a palm held over her chest.  

Stiles heard a dozen or so other names, and smiled and nodded like he was going to remember who the hell they were the next day.  

"You take all the time you need, honey," Charlene said, a slight southern twang to her speech.  "We're not going anywhere.  We just want you to get better!"

"And if you want to just have a class where we sit and talk boys, well I'm sure none of us old biddies would complain, would we girls?" Dolores said, smiling at the rest of the group behind her.

"Maybe you could tell me a bit about Peter," Stiles whispered sheepishly to Dolores, who was closest and seemed the least threatening.  "I don't really remember anything about him."

"Of course, sugar," she whispered back, winking at him.  "You've told us enough stories over the years.  I'm sure we'd be able to help."

It seemed odd, to hear about his intimate relationship from a horde of grandmas, but as Stiles hadn't met anyone else he would consider to be a friend of his and Peter's yet, he didn't think he could be too picky about where he got his information.

"I'm going to try to learn some yoga this week, and maybe I can see you all for our Tuesday lesson next week, alright?" Stiles asked, trying to sound more confident than he felt.  Though really, it seemed the women wouldn't be upset if he never remembered how to do yoga at all.  

"That sounds just fine, Stiles," Beverly said, smiling softly again.  "We could teach you a bit ourselves if you needed us to."

"Thank you so much," Stiles said, wishing he wasn't quite so sweaty when he was meeting a group of new people.  "I think I'm going to take a shower now.  I'll see you all later," he said, waving goodbye to everyone before turning and heading back toward the locker room.

"That poor little lamb," he heard one of them whisper when they thought he was out of earshot.  "All that love, just poof, gone."

"Peter must be devastated," another commented.  "I'm sure a baby is going to be a far way off for him now."

"I'd be upset, too, if my husband forgot who I was," someone else said.

Stiles was almost to the locker room when he heard one last comment.  

"Mine did."  

It all just sounded so depressing when he heard it out loud like that.  Like a Nicholas Sparks movie gone even more wrong than usual.  He might never remember what he and Peter had, and that would have to be okay.  Peter and he would have to be able to live with each other even if Stiles never remembered anything.  Stiles only hoped that whatever he had to offer Peter now would be enough to keep him.


	19. I Hold All My Secrets Like I'm Scared

A few days later, Peter came home from the office to a quiet house.  Stiles' car was outside, but that didn't really mean much.  It wasn't uncommon for Stiles to go for a run on the streets.  He used to enjoy the challenge the steep hills of San Francisco provided.  Peter was just about to start on dinner when he heard a muffled thump from upstairs.  

Peter followed the noise to Stiles' studio where he found the man on the floor, splayed out on his chest, winded, a yoga video playing softly on his laptop.

"Are you alright?" Peter asked, sniffing deeply to check for any sign of injury.  

"I just had a bit of a tumble.  No harm done," Stiles said, still flopped out like a starfish on the floor.  "Bow pose didn't end well," he said, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath.

"Yeah, I never got the name of that one," Peter said, chuckling a little, glad Stiles hadn't done himself any lasting damage.  "It's nice to watch you do it, though," he said, voice turning warm and seductive.

"I bet," Stiles said, not really feeling in the mood to flirt.  He sighed, pulling himself off the floor and tapping the spacebar to stop the video playing.  "I can really do all these things?  All the handstands and splits and stuff?"

"I promise you that you can," Peter said, grabbing the laptop off the floor and leading the way downstairs.  "I've seen you.  You're incredible."

“Well I don’t feel incredible,” Stiles said, rolling his shoulders and twisting his neck back and forth until it popped.  “I’m sore all over.”

“You’re just building your body back up to it,” Peter said, heading for the kitchen.  “You were in the hospital for a month and a half, give yourself a break.  I’m sure you’ll feel fine once you’ve been back in the routine for a few weeks.”

“Maybe,” Stiles said, peering around Peter and into the refrigerator, wondering what was for dinner.

“I could offer you a massage later, if you’d like,” Peter said, voice light, like he was trying to make it clear that he didn’t have any ulterior motives.  Stiles wasn’t quite convinced that Peter was offering out of the goodness of his heart.  He also wasn’t sure how he would feel about being stroked and kneaded by Peter.  It would probably lead to sex.  

Was he ready for sex?  It had been weeks, and they hadn’t gone beyond a little kissing and one unintentional, erotic literature-inspired orgasm.  Peter was probably dying for a little release, and Stiles didn’t blame him for that, not one bit.  As it was, Stiles was feeling pretty worked up, but he was used to only having his right hand for company, Peter probably wasn’t.  The sound of Peter setting a frying pan on the stovetop shocked Stiles out of his thoughts.  

“What’s for dinner?” he asked, changing the subject.  

“Kale and sunchoke salad with seared salmon,” Peter answered, poking around in the fridge again, collecting his ingredients.

It sounded terrible, but Stiles put a smile on his face and said, “Sounds great.  I’m going to take a shower first.”

“Okay,” Peter said, smiling at Stiles over his shoulder as the younger man walked away.  He stared for a minute at Stiles’ retreating back, wishing he was allowed to follow the man into the bathroom and press him up against the wall of the shower, steamy and cold at the same time.  Peter frowned and tried to calm himself.  Stiles clearly wasn’t ready, and he wasn’t going to push.  It was hard enough for the man to live with him and relearn his entire career, he wasn’t going to pile on top of that with more stress.

Peter carried on with roasting the vegetables until the kale and shallots were crisp and then started on the salmon.  He was just tossing the veggies with parmesan cheese and dried cranberries when Stiles rejoined him in the kitchen, buzzed hair glistening with water droplets.  Peter bit his lip.  He had a thing for Stiles when his hair was wet.  It was almost carnal, the need he had to lick the moisture from the curve of his neck, to learn what it felt like to have that short buzz of hair tickle his tongue.

Stiles coughed.  Clearly, he had been speaking to Peter and hadn’t gotten a response.  “What?” Peter asked, shaking his head a tiny bit as he brought his attention back to his husband.  

“Would you like a glass of wine?” Stiles was asking.  He had a sweating bottle of chardonnay and a corkscrew in his hands and was shaking them in Peter’s direction like he had asked the question several times already.  

“Sure,” Peter said, turning his eyes back to the fish he had in the frying pan.  It was maybe a minute overdone.  He wasn’t sure how he had let himself get so distracted.  Grabbing two plates, Peter quickly flipped the fish out of the pan and pulled the vegetables from the oven.  He scooped them on the plate and grabbed two forks, leading Stiles to the small dining room table.

“Do we ever eat meat?” Stiles asked, a few minutes later.  He had made a substantial dent in the vegetables, but the fish was only half eaten.

“This is one of your favorite dishes,” Peter said, frowning slightly.  “Or it used to be anyway.”

“It’s fine, I’m just…” he trailed off, searching for the right words.  “I’m not sure I’m cut out for all this healthy living and exercise.  Maybe I should start thinking about trying something new.”

Peter looked up, concern coloring his face.  If Stiles didn’t think his career suited him, it wasn’t a huge leap to think that Peter didn’t suit him anymore either.  Maybe Stiles was leading up to a divorce here.  If he didn’t like this life, maybe he didn’t want Peter at all.  This was the home they had created together, and Stiles was feeling stifled.  Peter froze, unsure of how to fix it.  

Stiles went back to poking at his fish, but Peter’s mind was racing.  He could try something new.  They could leave town, go traveling.  He could offer Stiles an exciting life, one that he never could have dreamed of.  This didn’t have to be the end for them.  Peter could find another way.  He took a deep breath and shot for a casual tone.  “Did you have anything in particular in mind?” he asked, taking a bite of kale and waiting for Stiles’ answer, heart pounding.  

“No, not really,” Stiles said, eyes on his plate.  “Just something… else.”

Peter tried not to panic.  Stiles seemed to want anything but this.  Anything but him.  He didn’t know what to say, so he busied himself with clearing the table.  It had been a while since Stiles had put any food in his mouth, so Peter took his plate as well, frowning when he scraped the perfectly crisp salmon skin into the trash can.  He did the dishes, scrubbing at the frying pan with more aggression than was really warranted while Stiles set up a movie.  

All thoughts of a romantic evening flying out the window, Peter’s frown turned to a scowl.  He had no idea what Stiles wanted.  Everything Peter did seemed to be wrong.  The music from _Ant-Man_ started to play from the living room.  Peter didn’t think he could handle a movie.  All he wanted to do was snuggle up close to Stiles and feel his warmth, inhale his scent.  There was no way Stiles was feeling up to a cuddle, and Peter’s wolf was practically scratching at his skin.  

“I’m going to go for a run,” Peter said, drying his hands on a kitchen towel and heading for the door.  Stiles eyebrows furrowed in confusion, but then he remembered it was the full moon, the second one since he’d woken up without his memories.  He had no idea if Peter had gone running the last time.  It hadn’t even crossed his mind to pay attention to the lunar cycle, not with everything else that had been going on.  Stiles worried he had been horribly insensitive to Peter’s wolf.  

“Okay,” Stiles said, turning around on the couch to watch Peter leave.  He didn’t change, didn’t put sneakers on or take his wallet or keys with him, he just strolled out the door.  The click of the lock shocked Stiles.  It sounded so definitive, so final.  

He spun the inner ring of his wedding band with his thumb idly.  Why had Peter even bothered to give it back if he was going to run at the first sign of trouble?  He hadn’t even asked Stiles if he wanted it, had just slipped it on his finger while he was passed out, unable to protest.  Stiles glared at the thin strip of metal, surprised by the way his gut twisted when he thought about taking it off.  There was no need for that.  It was just a little hiccup in an otherwise productive week.  They were getting there, it was just going to take some time.

Peter would be back, he assured himself.  He lived here, Stiles lived here, and Stiles was his mate.  He would be back.  He had to be.  

Peter stomped down the front steps two at a time and swept down the street.  It wasn’t fully dark yet.  Though his wolf yearned to drop to all fours, he wouldn’t be able to until night fell and he was somewhere secluded.  Walking quickly, Peter headed for Golden Gate Park, hoping it wouldn’t be too difficult to sneak in and lose himself in the forest.  It was several miles’ walk from the townhouse, so Peter took his time, doing his best to clear his thoughts and focus on the call of the moon.  

Stiles was just being… Stiles.  He needed more time to figure out what he wanted out of this life.  It would be alright.  Peter was just feeling vulnerable and out of sorts because of the moon.  It was normal for an Alpha wolf to feel a little emotional during a full moon, wasn’t it?  Peter assured himself that it was.  He didn’t have a pack, he didn’t have any Betas to call on for strength.  When his mate was being difficult, there was nowhere else for him to turn but back to mother nature.  

With that thought in mind, the desire to reconnect with his truer self, Peter jogged to the park.  It took some time, but when he finally got to the far corner of the woods, it was fully dark.  Kicking off his shoes, Peter dropped his hands down to the ground and howled.  No one answered him, and he hadn’t expected them to, but he still couldn’t help being a bit disappointed.  His feet dug into the ground, dirt filtering in between his toes as he pushed back and burst forward, running at top speed in his Beta shift.  

It had been so long since he’d let his wolf out to play, and even longer since he’d gone for a run, but there was something that was calling him to renew his bond with the moon.  Maybe it was the fact that his mate wasn’t comfortable with him, or perhaps it was seeing Derek and Scott again, remembering what it was like to have other wolves around, but something had sparked a deep desire in Peter to run.  He wanted to feel the dirt under his claws and the wind in his hair.  Peter had been cooped up in the hospital for so long, desperately trying to put his and Stiles’ relationship back together, and it was finally time to be free.  

He ran for hours, snagging his clothing on tree branches as he climbed redwoods with his claws, catching needles as he sprinted by Monterey pines.  With every step he took, his mind cleared.  The faster he ran, the slower everything seemed to move, his thoughts and worries included.  When the sky started to lighten, Peter stood, back cracking as he rose out of his crouch.  He wasn’t sure where the time had gone, but he needed to get home.  His mate, Stiles, would be worried about him.  It wasn’t like either of them to stay out all night.  

Suddenly it became imperative that he get home and scent his mate.  Peter smelled like the earth and the moon and he wanted to rub it all over Stiles until it seeped into his skin.  His mate was his pack, and though Stiles wasn’t a wolf, he was all that Peter had.  It had been wrong for Peter to leave his mate unprotected.  He needed to get home.  

Peter ran, barefoot, the ten miles back to the townhouse.  The rising sun broke through the morning fog and warmed Peter’s skin as he sprinted up the stairs, panting.  That run was the most exercise Peter had gotten in months, and it felt amazing.  

Stiles was asleep on the couch, wrapped up in an afghan with the menu of _Ant-Man_ running on repeat.  The warm scent of him hung in the still air of the living room, and Peter inched forward, drawing in deep lungfuls of breath, letting it settle him.  His skin itched with tree sap and the legs of his pants were practically ripped to shreds, but he didn’t feel any of it.  Stiles was his sole focus.

His mate was sleeping deeply, curled up with his face toward the door like he had been waiting for his wolf to return.  Peter’s heart ached.  He stepped up, curled his arms under Stiles’ body, and lifted him gently.  Stiles arched into Peter’s body, neck curving delicately toward his throat where he pressed his cold, upturned nose.  Lips twisting into a smile, Peter carried Stiles to the bedroom and laid him down.  He knew he should shower before getting into bed, but the scent of his sweat and the dirt he had picked up in the forest soothed him.  They needed to be wrapped around Stiles as well.  

Stripping quickly, Peter got under the covers and pulled them up over Stiles.  He wasn’t sure his mate would appreciate waking up in his sap-sticky arms, but he didn’t much care at that moment.  All that mattered was wrapping Stiles up in his scent and keeping it close to them, cocooned in the covers.  He pulled Stiles to his chest and breathed in his mate’s scent.  It was sour with worry and confusion, not at all what Peter’s wolf wanted.  Pulling Stiles in closer and squeezing him tight, Peter rubbed the side of his head into Stiles’ mindful of his staples.  

After a few minutes, Stiles rolled over and curled into Peter’s chest, hot breath blowing over one erect nipple.  Peter closed his eyes and told himself it wasn’t just muscle memory, that Stiles did actually want to be close to him.  Stiles may not have been a wolf, but he had certainly picked up on the mannerisms over the years, including scent marking.  It hurt to think that a sleeping Stiles may have only been reacting out of instinct, and not desire for Peter’s comfort.  Exhausted and barely clinging to the calm he had achieved after his run, Peter let go.  He sank into Stiles’ embrace and let himself enjoy it, even if it wasn’t genuine.  He slept.


	20. The Trouble with Lonely is it Sleeps Right There Beside You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're winding down a little bit here. There should be 25 chapters and an epilogue, so I think I'll try to do four chapters a week for the next two weeks and then we'll be all done! :(

Stiles woke with two sticky arms wrapped tightly around his torso.  Still foggy from sleep, he didn’t question it, merely burrowed into the warmth and pressed his face to Peter’s throat.  Peter rumbled happily, a low vibration in his chest, and squeezed even tighter.  Their legs were intertwined, and Stiles could feel Peter’s hard length pressed against his hip.  He froze.

Peter hadn’t come home last night.  He had waited up, barely paying any attention to the movie he was playing, and still, Peter hadn’t come.  Clearly, he had come home eventually, because his erection was currently twitching interestedly into Stiles’ thigh, but Stiles didn’t remember it.  He also didn’t remember going to bed, and quickly came to the realization that Peter must have carried him.  

“I have to get up, Peter,” he insisted, tapping at his husband’s forearm.  Peter didn’t respond to his words, but the sound of Stiles’ voice in his ear caused his hips to twitch, pressing him even harder against Stiles’ thigh.  “I’m teaching my first class this morning, and I have to shower.”

Peter again, didn’t respond to Stiles’ request, but did pull his head back just far enough to capture Stiles’ lips in a kiss.  Sure, Stiles had initiated a kiss a week or so ago, but they’d kept their distance since then.  Once again taken by surprise, Stiles started to panic.  He didn’t know it was coming, and now that it had, he wanted to run away from Peter’s lips and insistent erection.  Still attempting to free himself, Stiles pinched down hard on one of Peter’s nipples until the man woke properly and let him go.

“What happened to you?” Stiles asked, slipping out of bed.  “You’re filthy.”

“Went for a run,” Peter mumbled, still groggy.  “Was the full moon.”

“I know that,” Stiles snapped, heading for the bathroom.  

“Haven’t run in so long,” Peter continued to mumble, rubbing at his eyes with tired firsts.  “Needed it.”

“What you need, is to wash these fucking sheets and stop sleep-humping me,” Stiles shot back, grabbing his towel and slamming the bathroom door.

Peter shook his head, clearing his mind, and assessed the situation.  Stiles was upset with him.  He also had a raging erection.  Those two things must be related.  Stiles still didn’t want him, didn’t want anything to do with his body or his affection.  Peter closed his eyes tightly and let out a deep exhale.  He had really fucked up, hadn’t he?

Pulling back the covers, Peter noticed pine needles and dirt everywhere.  Bits of leaves were stuck to his arm hair and his hands and feet were black as coal.  Unwilling to incur any more of Stiles’ wrath, Peter lunged out of bed and pulled the sheets with him, balling them up and heading upstairs to the laundry room.  He tossed his clothes in the garbage and showered in the guest bath.  

He had forgotten a towel, but it was clear that Stiles had already left the house.  Stiles wouldn’t have wanted to see him naked anyway.  He was disgusted, revolted by Peter’s affection, and his reaction to Peter that morning had made his feelings even more painfully clear.  Dressing quickly, Peter sat down on the bare mattress, distraught.  

Peter didn’t know what to do.  His relationship was falling apart, and it was the only thing in his life that held any meaning for him.  While it was usually pretty easy to ignore, his wolf was whining in his ear so loudly it set his teeth on edge.  It was driving him crazy.  He wasn’t sure when it had gotten so sensitive, but he hoped it wouldn’t last long.  The constant cry was distracting and somewhat embarrassing.  

Deciding he was in no shape to work, Peter called in sick and headed to the kitchen.  Stiles hadn’t brought the lunch Peter had packed for him.  He wasn’t sure if it was because he was in a rush to get out the door, or if Stiles was just protesting his healthy cooking, but either way, Peter didn’t want his mate to go hungry.  There was no way Stiles had stopped for breakfast, and if his schedule was correct, he was going to teach three classes before noon.  

Stiles was probably terrified, and waking up with Peter hounding him for cuddles probably hadn’t helped.  Determined to set things right, Peter headed to the grocery store, stocking up on red meat and all the things Stiles loved but had stopped eating when he started training seriously.  It helped to settle his wolf, planning to provide for his mate, and while the restlessness was still just under the surface, Peter was doing his best to keep it under control.  The only problem being his anchor was clearly starting to slip.

Working methodically, Peter peeled and chopped a five-pound bag of potatoes and grilled a double thick pork chop.  It smelled heavenly, and after a quick glance at his watch, he packed up the steaming hot meal in a Tupperware and headed to the gym.


	21. The Trouble with Tomorrow is It's Always Tomorrow

Stiles didn’t know who he was kidding, he was absolutely awful at this.  He expected yoga to go alright, but pilates, and zumba?  He was a horrible dancer.  He had no business teaching anyone how to shake the fat off their ass, or whatever it was he was supposed to be doing.  Stiles was a disaster.  What made matters worse, was how everyone kept insisting that he was moody and needed to go back home to his husband and get laid.  

The women in his yoga class had stopped him after only ten minutes, dissolving into pockets of gossip as they sat, cross-legged on their yoga mats.  

“Things aren’t going well with your young man, Stiles?” Beverly had asked, partway through a stretch.  “You two are usually so solid.  And he’s so damned handsome, I don’t understand what the problem is.”

Stiles hadn’t answered.  He took a deep breath and attempted to finagle his limbs into tree pose, doing his best to ignore the constant whispering coming from his so-called students.  

“He must not have had a good orgasm in weeks, the mood he’s in.  I bet Peter is just chomping at the bit to get back on the horse.  That man looks like he could go for hours, the ass on him.  What I wouldn’t do to be a fly on the wall in that house.”

Stiles closed his eyes tightly and tried to push the thoughts out of his mind, but it was no use.  Every word the women said was swirling and morphing into moving pictures in his head.  

“Maybe that knock on the head was harder than we thought.  You’d have to be seriously damaged to not want a piece of that man’s husband.  The way Stiles used to talk about his cock, it must be unreal.”

“Don’t you listen to a word those biddies say, sweetheart,” Charlene whispered to him, drawing his attention away from the other harpies.  “That man loves you, even if you don’t remember why. _He_ knows.  If you’re upset over something, just talk to him about it.  He won’t be mad.  Peter just wants you to be happy.  You don’t have anything to be worried about.”

“Thanks,” Stiles whispered back, rolling up his yoga mat, which prompted the rest of the class to begin packing up.  He stalked out of the room as quickly as he could, not wanting anyone to catch his arm and tell him, yet again, that he was undersexed.  He knew damn well he was undersexed, but that didn’t mean he wanted to actually _have_ sex.  

Stiles had almost made it to the break room when a familiar voice said, “You forgot your lunch.”

It was Peter, looking devastatingly attractive, all pecs and soft cotton, holding a Tupperware with condensation trapped inside.  He had brought Stiles a warm lunch.  It made Stiles want to scream.  He had come to work to find a little peace, maybe a distraction and a bit of relaxation during his yoga class, not to be bombarded with people that wanted to tell him, in explicit detail, exactly how he was disappointing his perfect husband.  

Stiles took a sharp turn and practically dove into the break room, closing the door behind him.  Peter, who was, of course, a constant figure at the gym, just followed him inside, a warm smile on his face.  

“I’m sorry things have been so weird between us lately,” he said, putting the Tupperware down on the table and pulling out a chair for Stiles to sit in.  Unhappy, but not knowing what else to do, Stiles took the proffered seat and waited until Peter was seated across from himself before opening the lid and taking a deep inhale of the heavenly scent.  Mashed potatoes and a barbequed pork chop, one of Stiles’ favorite comfort foods.  It made him want to retch.

“My wolf has been really sensitive to the changes in our relationship, and it’s been a bit harder for me to cope than I expected,” Peter carried on, unaware of Stiles’ anguish.  “All I want is for you to be happy.  If that’s not this,” he said, waving his hand around, gesturing to the gym as a whole.  “If it isn’t what you need, that’s okay.  You’re entitled to decide your own future.  I know you didn’t choose this.”

Peter felt like he was talking about himself, and not Stiles’ career, and it made his wolf wail and pound at the inside of his chest.  Stiles couldn’t walk away from him, not after all these years.  He just couldn’t.  

“So I want you to take the time to really think about what it is that you want, and we can discuss it.  I’m willing to do whatever it takes to make things okay for us again.  Please believe that, and trust that you are my number one priority.”

Stiles looked up to Peter and took in the open, pained look on his husband’s face.  Peter really was too good for him.  He was willing to give up everything, to rearrange his entire life, to do whatever Stiles wanted.  

Too bad Stiles had no idea what it was he wanted.  All he knew was that he didn’t deserve this single-minded reverence that Peter seemed to have for him.  It was all too much too fast.  Stiles hadn’t had any time to catch up, to feel the same way Peter felt.  It weighed on him like an iron bar across his chest, the way he hurt Peter just by existing without his memories.

“I’m going to cook your favorite for dinner tonight, and we can talk,” Peter said, getting Stiles a knife and fork from a drawer before turning to leave.  “Be home by six?” he asked, hope brightening his face.  

Stiles nodded, not trusting himself to speak.  He didn’t know what to say, and he definitely wasn’t going to have everything figured out by dinner time.  The deadline loomed over his head like an axe.  At six o’clock, his relationship was going to turn into a pumpkin unless he figured out how to save it.


	22. The Trouble with Hearts is That They're Always Breaking

Peter had cleaned everything in the house at a particularly manic clip.  Every surface had been dusted or vacuumed, and cleared of clutter.  He made the bed, hoping it would look inviting and Stiles would be up for a bit of snuggling after they’d had dinner and talked out their issues.  When the kitchen was spotless, he set about preparing a lavish dinner.  He took his time, letting the familiar movements calm him as he opened a bottle of wine to breathe and prepped his beef tenderloin.  

The swish, swish, swipe of his knife as he chopped herbs, mushrooms, and onions started to feel therapeutic.  He brushed dijon mustard over the seared steak, laid out the puff pastry and prosciutto, and  piled it high with the cooked mushrooms, wrapping everything together and securing it with some egg wash.  That done, he pondered what side dish to make, seeing as how he’d already fed Stiles mashed potatoes for lunch.  Peter wanted something elegant, something beautiful, and decided on fried polenta cakes with roasted heirloom tomatoes and pine nuts.

The meat would need a hour in the oven, and Peter didn’t know what to do with himself in that time.  His wolf was itching to run again, but he buried it down deep, not wanting to leave the house and get dirty before dinner.  He tried to read a bit or to watch TV, but nothing held his interest.  In the end, Peter had just paced around the living room, mentally wringing his hands until it was time to start making his side dishes.  

Peter was just flipping his perfectly fried polenta cakes out of his frying pan when Stiles came through the door.  He looked at Peter, eyes flicking to the pre-poured glasses of red wine and the candles at the table and quickly said, “I’m going to take a shower.”

Peter’s face fell.  Stiles already smelled of the cheap soap they had at the gym and fresh deodorant.  His mate was avoiding him, and worse, he was doing a poor job of it.  

Peter went back to slicing the meat and plating their meal.  He set the dishes on the table and sat in his seat, not touching his food until Stiles came back, dressed in too-tight jeans and a soft red V-neck sweater, hair dripping wet.  The line of his incision still looked dark red, but they were scheduled to get his staples removed that weekend.  After that, Peter hoped the healing process would be quick and painless.  The physical healing at least, as far as Stiles’ memories were concerned, he had all but given up.

“I hope you’re hungry,” Peter said, aiming for casual and pleasant but missing by a wide margin.  “Beef Wellington, rare, just the way you like it,” he said, gesturing for Stiles to sit down and join him at the table.  

Stiles took his napkin, cloth, and folded expertly, and placed it in his lap.  He went to grab his fork, but thought better of it, and picked up his wine glass instead, draining half of it in one gulp.  If ever there were a time for liquid courage, this was it.  

Peter looked at him expectantly, and Stiles opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.  He had no idea what to say to this man.  By all accounts, he was perfect.  Peter was handsome, intelligent, well-spoken, funny when he had the mind to be, and talented in the kitchen.  Assuming his skills carried over to the bedroom, there wasn’t a gay man in San Francisco that wouldn’t be thrilled to be married to him.  And yet Stiles wanted nothing more than to run from the room and never come back.  

“I’m not going back to the gym,” Stiles said finally, taking his fork and knife in his shaking hands and cutting a piece of meat.  He scraped some polenta and tomato onto his fork as well and slid it into his mouth.  The food was expertly prepared, but Stiles barely tasted it.  He took another bite, filling his mouth until he was unable to speak.

“Alright,” Peter said, taking a small sip of wine.  The tension in the room was heavy and oppressive, like an anvil weighing on his lungs.  He tried to remain calm and let Stiles lead the conversation where he wanted.  “Would you like to take some time off?  Maybe travel?” he suggested lightly, wondering if a change of scenery would do them both some good.  There was so much pressure in this house, the ghost of past-Stiles, the one who loved him, lurking around every corner.  

“I was thinking maybe I’d go stay with Dad and Melissa for a little while,” Stiles said, taking another big gulp of wine.  The liquid burned as it went down, the acidity of the tomatoes compounding with it, making his stomach churn unpleasantly.

“We can do that,” Peter said, smiling softly.  He wasn’t sure how being in a house with Stiles’ parents was supposed to help them reconnect, but he was willing to give it a try.  Maybe Stiles just wanted to avoid sex until he was ready, and sleeping under his father’s roof was just an excuse to keep Peter’s hands to himself.  Had he been pressuring his husband?  Peter didn’t think he’d been overly demonstrative, but he _had_ been initiating all of their touches, even if he was half asleep when he did so.  Was Stiles really just suffering through everything for his sake?

“No, Peter,” Stiles said, standing up to get the wine bottle from the kitchen and refill his glass.  “I’m going to go alone.”

“I never meant to make you unhappy,” Peter said, dropping his fork and knife to his plate with a clatter that made Stiles wince.  “If there’s something I can do, something you need… I’d do anything.”  Peter wished he could be more eloquent.  He didn’t know what words he should use to convince Stiles that they needed to stay together.  

It was imperative.  Peter needed Stiles like he needed oxygen.  He wasn’t sure he could let Stiles leave, and that thought terrified him.  He wasn’t a jailor.  If his husband didn’t want him anymore, he’d have to… he’d… Peter didn’t know what he would do.

“That’s just it, Peter,” Stiles said, still standing beside the table holding his glass and the half-full bottle of wine.  “You’re doing too much.”

“I can do less,” Peter pleaded, ready to drop to his knees at Stiles’ feet if need be.  He’d never been more afraid in his life, and the sensation was paralyzing.  He felt his breath catch in his chest when he realized Stiles was failing to meet his eye.  “It’s just… my wolf has been so close to the surface, and I’m having trouble keeping my emotions in check, but I can stamp it down.  I swear I can.  Then we could start over, like a clean slate.  Please…”

“I can’t,” Stiles said, biting his bottom lip like it pained him to say it.  “I don’t know how to love you like you love me, and I don’t know that I ever will.  What you had, with old Stiles?  It’s just too intense.  It’s too much and I can’t… I just can’t handle it.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter said, heart beating double time.  He felt like something was slipping away, and he couldn’t catch hold of it, like he was at the top of a mountain and something had just tumbled over the side, never to be seen again.  “I can’t help it.  You don’t know what it’s like, to need someone like this.  It’s overwhelming, what I feel for you.”

“I know that, and I know it’s hard, but _I can’t be what you need_ ,” Stiles said, eyes closing as he searched for the right words to break Peter’s heart with.  “I’m not him, and I can’t be.  I need to go.  You’ll find someone else.”

“You don’t need to be anything but what you are,” Peter said, hand reaching across the table toward Stiles, who still had his hands full, and wouldn’t have touched him even if he didn’t.   “You’re the same person I fell in love with,” Peter insisted, desperate for Stiles to understand him.  “You’re…” he trailed off, twisting his head away and closing his eyes, setting his jaw.  “There _isn’t_ anyone else for me.  There _can’t be_.  You’re my anchor,” he finished, the word falling from his lips, unbidden.  

Stiles couldn’t breathe.  His hands went numb and he dropped his burden, wine glass smashing to the table, bottle shattering against the expensive tile.  He clutched at his chest, watching as the burgundy liquid dripped down the edge of the table to pool on the floor like blood.  Stiles backed away, nearly slipping on the wine as he made for the door.  

“Stiles, wait!” Peter called, jumping up from his seat to follow his husband, arm outstretched.  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

“I can’t,” Stiles said, already pulling the front door open.  “Just…” he said, pausing for a second with his hand on the knob.  “Don’t follow me,” he finished weakly, slamming the door behind him.

Peter dropped to the floor, not caring that he’d fallen into a lake of merlot, which was slowly seeping into his clothing.  He’d done it.  It had finally happened.  He’d driven his mate away, and now he was alone.  He’d be alone forever.  

Peter cried.


	23. Make It Like It Never Happened

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I fell a little behind my posting schedule last week. This chapter's pretty long though, so I hope you'll forgive me.

Stiles ran to his car and folded himself into the driver’s seat.  He needed to get away, far, far away from Peter and his weighty expectations.  Stiles couldn’t be someone’s anchor.  He had seen what had happened to Peter when he hadn’t had an anchor.  Stiles remembered it like it was yesterday, because to him it had only been two years ago.  

When Peter had come out of his coma, he had been a monster, vengeful and unstoppable.  And now Stiles was his anchor?  He was supposed to be the one to reign in that man’s temper?  To keep him sane and docile?  There wasn’t a person alive that should have that responsibility, and Stiles definitely hadn’t signed up for it.  It was far too much pressure for one person to be able to handle, let alone someone who had no memory of ever making the promise.  Stiles couldn’t even remember their wedding vows.

He was upset, but the sadness was quickly turning to anger.  Who did Peter think he was, putting that kind of pressure on him?  You would think that kind of decision would have to be made together, as a couple, not unilaterally.  Stiles wondered for a minute if this was how Allison felt after finding out she was Scott’s anchor.  Why did the wolf get to decide who was the one person that could never leave them, or risk their assigned wolf going on a murder spree?  In what universe was that fair?

Stiles didn’t even know where he was going.  He wasn’t familiar with any of the streets, and there were more one-ways than not.  After driving along aimlessly for 20 minutes or so, he finally reached what seemed to be the gay nightclub district; not that there was much of a straight nightclub district in San Francisco.  Deciding he needed a strong drink, Stiles screeched to a stop outside a bar that was aptly named, the EndUp.  He wondered how many men had ended up here after knock-down-drag-out fights with their husbands.  

Running a hand through his hair, Stiles remembered that he didn’t have any hair.  His wedding ring clacked on one of the staples holding his head together.  He grimaced.  For a moment, Stiles wondered what the fuck he was doing here.  He had just suffered a traumatic brain injury.  He had amnesia.  Getting trashed at a gay bar probably wasn’t the best plan in the world, but for once, he didn’t care.  He didn’t want to be responsible tonight, he didn’t want to be responsible for anything, and he definitely didn’t want to be responsible for Peter.  

Slipping his wedding ring off and stuffing it in his jeans pocket, Stiles quickly checked himself over in the mirror.  He looked like jailbait.  Since his hair was shorn, it was hard to tell that there was any gray in it, instead, he just looked like a teenage Frankenstein’s monster who was out past curfew.  Sighing like it was the best he was going to do, Stiles left his car, locked it, and ducked inside.  

It was like a whole new world.  Besides a few nights at Jungle, Stiles had never been out clubbing, and he certainly had never been to a bar that had a completely homosexual clientele.  Stiles’ eyes didn’t know where to look first.  There were men in tight jeans, men in leather, men wearing practically nothing at all, stripped out of their clothes and dancing on display tables.  He felt his jeans constrict.  There was so much to look at, and none of it was bad.  Lines of sweaty men were grinding into each other on the dance floor as techno blared from the sound system.  

Mindful of his injury, Stiles grabbed a drink at the bar and headed off to a somewhat secluded corner where it was quieter.  The bass had been making his ears ring, and he didn’t want to do any more damage to himself than had already been done.  

He finished his glass of whiskey, frowning at it once it was empty.  Stiles thought it might have been more fun, getting drunk in public.  In his mind, he was still 18, a long way away from having a legal drink at a bar.  It wasn’t as exciting as he had hoped.  Maybe the fun was in the amount of alcohol you drank, not the action itself.

Just as he was moving to get up for another drink, one slid into his vision on the table in front of him.  An attractive blonde sat down opposite him and smiled.  “I’m Kyle,” the man said, holding out his hand.  “And you’re cute.”

“Thanks,” Stiles said, feeling his face start to flush.  Maybe the jailbait thing worked for some people.  Kyle was tall and thin, not unlike himself in build, but he had long blonde hair.  The man looked as far from Peter as possible, and that made Stiles all the more interested.  “And thank you for the drink,” he said, holding up the double whiskey Kyle had brought him.  “I’m Stiles.”

“Miles?” Kyle asked, leaning forward to better hear him.  

“Stiles,” he repeated, smiling at the interested sparkle in Kyle’s eye.  The man was genuinely pleased to meet him.  No one had been pleased to meet Stiles before in his life, and definitely not any attractive gay men wearing dark wash jeans and tight black tank tops.  

“That’s an interesting name,” Kyle said, leaning even closer toward him.  Stiles saved him the trouble by sliding along the half-circle shaped booth until he was right next to the blond.  

“It’s a nickname,” Stiles said, liking the fact that Kyle leaned in toward him whenever he talked, even though he could hear him clearly over the music from this distance.  “My real name is a Polish train wreck.”

“It’s sexy,” Kyle said, giving Stiles a shy smile.  “I like a little mystery.”

“What do you do?” Stiles asked, wondering what kind of small-talk was typical in these types of situations.  

“I’m a runway model,” the man answered, pulling a wide grin from Stiles.  

“I’m not surprised,” Stiles said, looking Kyle up and down appraisingly.  “You look like you’ve got legs for days.”

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Kyle teased, raising his eyebrows.  

“I would, actually,” Stiles replied, wondering where his confidence was coming from.  He was a teenager and he looked like he had just escaped a particularly sketchy teaching hospital for aspiring butchers, yet here he was, flirting like it was his job.  

“What about you?” Kyle asked, turning his body toward Stiles, close enough to feel his warmth.  

“I don’t really know,” Stiles said, rubbing the back of his neck.  “I kind of just quit my job.”

“Oh, really?” Kyle said, tone seductive and intriguing.  Stiles kind of wanted to kiss him, he realized.  And how ridiculous was that?  He’d met the man exactly two minutes ago, but he was feeling reckless, and a little bit horny, if he was being honest.  “What did you do until now?”

“I was a fitness instructor.  Martial arts, kickboxing, yoga, all that,” Stiles said, waving his hand in a circle to encompass the entirety of physical fitness.  “But I was on medical leave for a while,” he said, pointing at the wound that was still visible on his head.  “Sorry, I know it probably looks nasty.”

“It doesn’t,” Kyle said, tilting his head and smiling.  He looked so sweet, Stiles’ urge to kiss him was rising.  “Looks like it hurts, though, are you okay?”

“Oh yeah fine, just lost the last ten years of my memories,” Stiles said nonchalantly, taking a sip from his glass.  “No big deal.”

“You’re kidding,” Kyle said, mouth falling open in shock.  “That’s insane.”

“You’re telling me,” Stiles said, resting his chin in his hand and looking up at the man.  His eyes were blue, Stiles noticed, though not as nice and clear as Peter’s.  Stiles huffed a breath out through his nose.  He wasn’t going to think about Peter tonight.  Tonight was about letting loose and having fun, being eighteen again and not worrying about werewolves and their stupid control issues.  

“You must be so confused,” Kyle said sympathetically, patting Stiles on the arm.  He looked down to see tan fingers resting on his own skin, and felt a weird tingle go down his spine.  It didn’t feel bad, but it didn’t necessarily feel good either.  He didn’t know what it felt like, but he was willing to let it go on for a little while to see where it led.  It was nice that Kyle believed him without question.  There was something earnest about that.

“Yeah, it’s been a bit of a roller coaster,” Stiles said sheepishly, wondering what a model was doing talking to him when there were probably a dozen or so other stupidly attractive models on the dance floor.  

“How about another drink?” Kyle asked.

Stiles looked down and saw that his glass was already empty.  He hadn’t noticed he had been drinking so quickly.  Between the two whiskeys and the two glasses of wine, he was feeling warm and a bit floaty.  Maybe another drink was exactly what he needed.  “Sounds great,” Stiles said, giving Kyle what he hoped was a flirty smile.  

Kyle was back in a few minutes, taking Stiles’ hand and physically wrapping it around the cold glass, eyes locked on Stiles’.  Licking his lips, Stiles let his fingers intertwine with Kyle’s for a second, and then lined their palms up, smirking at the fact that Kyle’s fingers were even longer than his own.  

“Tell me more about modeling,” Stiles said, raising his eyebrows.  “Do you do any nude shoots?” he teased, noticing how Kyle’s gaze dropped to his throat as he swallowed down a gulp of whiskey.  

“A few,” Kyle admitted, smiling back.  “And it’s not like I wear much on the runway either.”

“Oh?  Have there been a lot of Tarzan themed shows?” Stiles asked, hoping that hadn’t sounded as dumb as it did in his head.

“More like underwear lines,” Kyle said, leaning back to pull his jeans down an inch, revealing a metallic green waistband with some designer name stitched across it. 

“Oh,” Stiles said, absolutely sure his mouth was hanging open.  “Those are…” he trailed off, unable to find an appropriate adjective.

“Thanks,” Kyle said with a small smile.  He reached up with one curved finger, and pressed it against the bottom of Stiles’ chin, pressing his mouth closed.  He laughed, a bright, high thing that didn’t seem to go with his speaking voice at all.  Embarrassed, Stiles took another large sip of his drink, barely feeling the burn at all as the whiskey slipped down his throat.  

They chatted for a while longer, touching on Stiles’ family and his upcoming role as best man in Scott’s wedding, as well as Kyle’s deep relationship with his best friend, a black lab named Benny.  After another double whiskey, Stiles was feeling loose and happy, enjoying the way Kyle’s thigh was pressed tight against his own. 

“You want to dance?” he asked, nodding his head toward the dance floor, blonde hair flopping lightly across his forehead.

Stiles laughed, rolling his head on his neck until it fell on Kyle’s shoulder.  

“What’s so funny?” Kyle asked, laughing right along with his companion.

“I was a zumba instructor,” Stiles said, slapping his hand down on Kyle’s thigh and keeping it there.  “But I forgot how to dance,” he gasped through hysterical laughing.  “I tried to teach a class this morning, and it was such a hot mess.  I was a disaster.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t that bad,” Kyle said, putting his hand down on top of Stiles’, pressing it more firmly against his thigh.  “You’ve got an incredible body,” he said, causing more red blotches to color Stiles’ creamy white skin.  “I’m sure you remember how to move those hips.”

“Want to teach me?” Stiles said, leaning in close to press a kiss to Kyle’s cheek.

“It’d be my pleasure,” Kyle said, taking Stiles’ hand and pulling him from the booth.  

They danced for several songs, laughing at Stiles’ horrible moves until they cried.  Two beers later they were pressed up against each other on the dance floor, Kyle’s hips rubbing against Stiles’ ass in sinuous circles.  Stiles threw his head back onto his shoulder, giving Kyle room to suck on his throat.  It felt good, better than good, it felt beautiful, like he was finally getting his youth back, finally getting the experiences he deserved.  There was no pressure, no responsibility, only the thrum of the bass and Kyle’s bulge throbbing against him.  

It felt like they were floating.  Or maybe that was the smoke machine-made clouds that were swirling around their legs.  It might have been the half liter of whiskey he had consumed over the last few hours.  Either way, Stiles didn’t care.  Everything was warm and bright.  Sweat dripped off his hairline, and Kyle lapped it up, pulling him in even closer with long arms around his chest.  

“You want to get out of here?” Kyle asked, licking a line up Stiles’ neck.  

Stiles felt himself nodding, more than ready to head back to this stranger’s apartment, until Kyle’s teeth clenched down on the skin behind his ear.  It was meant to be a playful nip, but Stiles recoiled like he’d been burned.  A painful zing shot up his spine like liquid fire licking up his nerves.  He pulled away from Kyle’s embrace and turned around to face the man.  

“Are you okay?” he asked, putting a hand on Stiles’ shoulder.  

“No,” Stiles said immediately.  He didn’t know what was happening, but he had a strong feeling that something was _capital W_ wrong.  “I’m sorry, you’ve been great, but I have to go,” he said quickly, darting through the crowd toward the exit.  

“Wait,” Kyle called after him, following him to the door.  “I like you a lot.  Can I get your number?”

He turned back toward the voice.  Kyle was a nice guy, and he was being rude.  He closed his eyes, wincing internally, tipping his head back and letting out a tight lipped exhale.  Stiles wanted to let him down easy, make up some sort of lie that would sound better than the truth, but he couldn’t think of anything.  “I’m married,” Stiles blurted out.  He clapped a hand over his mouth, eyes wide.

Kyle looked just as shocked as he was, if not more.  “You’re what?”

“I’m sorry.  I shouldn’t be here.  I’m married and while I don’t remember marrying my husband, he still exists, and I just… shouldn’t.”  Stiles felt like he needed to prove it, like that would make his rejection easier on Kyle somehow, so he pulled his wedding ring out of his pocket and slipped it back onto his hand.  Turning the hand around,  he wiggled his fingers at Kyle, letting the disco lights glint off the metal.  

“I get it,” Kyle said, backing away, eyes already darting back to the dance floor.  “I don’t want to get in the middle of whatever this is,” he said, waving a circle around, gesturing at Stiles’ entire person.  

“Yeah, thanks.  Sorry again,” Stiles said, mouth twisting with guilt.  Then he was out the door, the cool night air quickly drying the sweat on his skin.  He clicked the button on his car key and let out a relieved sigh when he saw that it was still where he left it.  Once inside, Stiles sat for a few minutes, trying to wrap his mind around what had just happened.  

Stiles had thought it would be fleeting, but the strange feeling remained long after Kyle touched teeth to his mating bite.  Was there something physical tying him to Peter?  How was that fair?  Could he really never leave Peter’s side without feeling like something was missing, or was it all just the work of a guilty conscience?  Stiles didn’t want to believe that he had been cheating on a man he had never agreed to marry, but he couldn’t help it.  That that was exactly what it felt like.  

Even though he had never been given a choice, Stiles still couldn’t do it.  He couldn’t cheat on Peter.  He didn’t _want_ to hurt the man.  Now that he had calmed down, it physically pained him to think that he had almost ruined what they had, however tentative their connection might have been.  What had he been thinking?  Stiles owed it to Peter and to himself to see where this connection took them.  His father and the rest of his local acquaintances had been urging him to give Peter a chance, and he hadn’t listened.  Stiles just now realized the gravity of that mistake.    

Stiles had to get home.  He wanted to kiss Peter, to feel the man’s skin under his hands, to express this unnamed feeling with his body.  He wanted to lose his virginity to his husband.  Stiles didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to him before, but once he accepted the idea, he could feel the wolf calling to him like a siren song.  

He had a _mate_.  Stiles hadn’t realized how deeply important that was until Kyle’s teeth had almost ruined the physical manifestation of their bond.  Somehow Stiles knew that if he had allowed that stranger to leave his mark over Peter’s, he would have lost everything.  Even now, he was sure the scent of another man’s saliva on him was going to drive Peter up a wall.

Pulling out of his parking spot, Stiles sped home, or at least, in the direction he thought was home.  Everything was a bit fuzzy, and it had just occurred to him that he was far too intoxicated to drive.  In for a penny, in for a pound, Stiles figured it would only be a few minutes until he got home anyway, and he desperately needed to see Peter.  He needed to apologize.  In fact, a bit of groveling might be in order.  

A few minutes was getting closer to twenty.  Stiles felt like there was something wrong with his vision, but it was probably just the whiskey playing tricks on him.  He didn’t recognize any of the streets and probably looked ancient, slouched behind the wheel squinting at everything with a look of bewilderment on his face.  

Admitting defeat, Stiles confessed that he was well and truly lost.  He pulled out his phone and dialed Peter’s number.  

“Stiles?” Peter answered immediately, letting out a breath of relief.  “Is something wrong?  I felt something weird.”

“I know,” Stiles agreed, wedging the phone between his shoulder and his ear so he could block the light with one palm, doing his best to read the street sign.  “I’m trying to get home, but I don’t know where I am.”

“I’m sorry,” Peter said immediately, voice croaky.  It sounded like he’d been crying, which just made Stiles feel worse.

“No, no,” Stiles insisted, making a sharp left turn when he thought he saw something familiar.  “ _I’m_ sorry.  I was horrible, and I feel horrible, and I just want to get home.  This is all my fault.”

“It’s okay, I’ll help you.  Do you know where you are?  Do you see any street signs?” Peter asked, tone relaxing when he learned that Stiles wasn’t trying to run anymore, and was actually just trying to get back to their den, back to him.  

“I don’t know.  It’s starting to rain and I just—”

Stiles was startled by several car horns blaring and then a sharp jerk of his body forward.  Luckily, he had managed to catch his hands on the steering wheel before he gave himself another concussion.  Smoke started coming from the hood of his car along with a faint hissing noise.  He had run a red light and slammed into a blue mailbox, practically knocking the thing off the bolts that held it to the ground.  

“Fuck!” Stiles cried, actual tears starting to stream down his face.  “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he yelled, slamming his hands down on the steering wheel in frustration.  “Oww!” he added when pain shot through his wrists.  

Stiles knew he shouldn’t have been driving.  He could have killed someone.  His father would have had his ass for such a stupid mistake, but man, was karma a bitch and a half.  Did he really have to crash into something?  He needed to get home.  Beginning to sob in earnest, Stiles dug around under the seat for his phone.

“Peter?” he asked, sniffling.  “Are you still there?”

There was nothing.  No breathing, no static on the other end, just nothing.  

“Peter?” Stiles sobbed, big fat frustrated tears splotching on his chest.  “I—I’m so sorry.  I need you.”

Still nothing.  With shaking hands, Stiles ended the call and pressed Peter’s contact again, redialing.  It rang and rang, and then went to Peter’s voicemail message.  “This is Peter Hale of Morreson & Foerster,” his husband’s smug voice said.  “You shouldn’t have this number.  Call my assistant at (415) 268-8649, or email me at [ phale@mofo.com ](mailto:phale@mofo.com).”

Stiles was too upset to laugh at that ridiculous email address.  He was just about to get out of the car and assess the damage when his passenger side door opened and a gigantic shadow hopped onto the seat.  

It was a wolf.  A beautiful, black and silver-gray wolf the size of a pony.  Stiles would have known those sapphire blue eyes anywhere.  “Peter?” he asked, leaning across the car to grab the door handle and pull it closed before anyone else could see the humongous wild animal that was sitting shotgun in his Mazda.  Coarse fur bristled against his arm as he pulled back.

The wolf let out a rumbling hum and blinked at him.  

“Do you understand me?” Stiles asked, eyebrows high up on his forehead.  What a crazy life he led.  A storybook creature had just hopped into his hatchback, and he wasn’t even surprised to find that it was his husband.

The wolf nodded, snorting like it was obvious.  

“Has this ever happened before?” Stiles asked, quickly wiping his face with his hands.  He knew he sounded like he had been sobbing like a baby, but he didn’t have to look like it too.

The wolf shook its head, the sound of skin flapping when its ears moved.  

“Okay so… you knew I was in trouble… and you found me?” Stiles asked, wondering how far this mate bond really went.  Did Peter have a mental GPS for him now?  

The wolf—no—Peter.  Stiles should remember this was Peter—shrugged.  It looked odd on a wolf, but the gesture was recognizable.  

“Can you change back?” Stiles asked, tilting his head to the side as he appraised his husband.  Peter’s coat was lovely and thick, like a shot straight out of National Geographic.  The blue eyes really set him apart.  Stiles didn’t think that particular shade was found in wolves naturally, and even if it was, he didn’t think a wild wolf’s eyes would have the same level of expression.  The eyes made Peter look human, still Peter, concerned and loving, understanding even Stiles’ snot-soaked English.

Peter shrugged again, and then mimicked the tilt of Stiles’ head.  He stared at Stiles for a few seconds, breathing in and out through his damp, black nose, and then stepped forward, over the center console until his front paws were next to Stiles on the seat and his snout rested on Stiles’ thigh.

Tentatively, Stiles raised his hand and stroked Peter’s head, marveling at how soft and rich the fur actually was.  Peter practically purred, the vibration making things get a little interesting in Stiles’ pants.  He threaded his fingers through Peter’s mane and worked the skin with his hands, kneading lightly.  Peter definitely liked that.  The rumbling increased.  

“I’m too drunk to drive,” Stiles said, sinking into his seat, rubbing relaxed hands through Peter’s fur.  “Can you change back?”

Peter raised his head and sniffed at Stiles’ shirt, collar, and then all the way up to his mouth, apparently sniffing out the alcohol.  Maybe Peter could tell how much he had had to drink by scent alone.  When Peter’s snout ran over his throat, Stiles laughed, the trail of moisture tickling his skin.  Peter inhaled sharply and then froze.  Stiles could feel the wolf’s body shudder under his hand as his hackles raised.  

Peter growled, and Stiles tilted his head away, trying to get some distance, but Peter couldn’t be stopped.  The wet nose followed him, huffing from his collar bone all the way up to his hairline.  Stiles let him.  He knew exactly what Peter was looking for, and he also knew he was ashamed of himself, and wanted Peter to know of his transgressions.  

“Nothing happened,” Stiles said, raising a careful hand to see if Peter would still accept his touch.  “We were just dancing.  I didn’t even kiss him,” he added, knowing his smelled like whiskey and spit, but wanting to be clear.  “He licked me, though.”

Peter rumbled again.  Steamy breath prickled Stiles’ skin when Peter opened his mouth.  Then a rough, hot tongue lapped at him.  

Stiles fought down a laugh.  It tickled, but Stiles didn’t squirm.  He knew Peter needed to stake his claim, and he was okay with it.  The gesture helped settle something in his body that had been out of place since he left the house, trailing merlot.  

“Have you been able to do this for a while?” Stiles asked, wrapping his arms around Peter’s neck as the wolf continued to rub his scent into Stiles’ skin.  “I mean, is this the first time you’ve fully shifted?”  He wound long, pale fingers into Peter’s fur and held on tight.  

Peter took a second to give Stiles a quick nod, then went back to work removing any trace of impropriety from his mate.  

“Was it something I did?” Stiles asked, fingers tensing in Peter’s mane.  “Nevermind.   _Of course_ it was something I did.  Look, I didn’t mean it, alright?”

Peter grazed a tooth over Stiles’ crescent shaped mating bite, and Stiles shivered, that now familiar zing running down his spine.  Stiles was absolutely not getting a boner while an animal ravaged his neck.  That would be gross and wrong, right?  But what if the wolf was actually his smoking hot husband?  Did that make it okay?

Stiles huffed out a desperate sounding laugh, and Peter snorted in response, probably smelling Stiles’ arousal.  “Okay, for serious this time, can you change back?  I’m going to need you to have hands so you can drive my drunk ass home and take me to bed.”

Peter sat back onto the passenger seat and whined.  

“Well I can’t put you in a cab dude, you’re gigantic!” Stiles shouted, throwing his hands up in the air.  “Are we close to home?” he asked, getting desperate.

Peter nodded, blue eyes glinting in the low light of the streetlamps that filtered through Stiles’ cracked windshield.  

“How stealthy can you be?” Stiles asked, turning off the car and sliding his keys back into his pocket.  “There’s no way you’re going to pass for a dog.”

Peter huffed again and pulled his door open with his mouth.  He hopped out gracefully, barely making any noise.  Stiles scrambled after him, locking the car with a beep.  It wasn’t smoking anymore, so Stiles figured it could wait until tomorrow.  The wolf slinked down the sidewalk for a few seconds before ducking into an alley.  Stiles followed quickly, not wanting to get lost.  

The way home was apparently through several backyards, a sketchy looking park, three more alleys, and over a chain link fence, which Peter cleared quickly in an effortless leap.  Stiles vaulted clumsily over the top on his stomach, ripping his tee shirt in the process.  

“Now I think you’re just fucking with me,” Stiles huffed, leaning heavily on his knees as he caught his breath.  He was far too drunk for cardio.  Looking at Stiles over his shoulder, Peter’s tongue lolled out in a playful grin.  “You asshole,” Stiles said, realizing they were finally at the end of their block.  “See if I put out after that.”

Peter galloped up their front steps and pushed the unlocked door open with his nose.  Stiles followed, practically tripping up the stairs, more uncoordinated than usual.  When Stiles reached the living room, his stomach sank.  Dinner was still on the table, half eaten.  There was broken glass all over the table and floor, and a pile of ripped, wine-soaked clothes next to Peter’s cell phone.  

“I’m so sorry,” Stiles said again, feeling tears prickle his eyes when he pictured Peter sitting in this room, heartbroken, waiting for him to come home.  “I know I said I was leaving you, but I’m not,” he pleaded, scrambling to start clearing up the detritus around him.  “I won’t.”

“I thought it was a punishment, being your anchor, being responsible for keeping you together.  But that’s exactly what you’ve been doing for me the last two months, and you were _happy_ to do it.  You were beautiful, and amazing, and a whole bunch of other words that I can’t articulate right now.  It’s… it’s not a punishment,” Stiles said, hands full of broken glass.  “It’s a privilege.”

Peter barked, a sharp, high noise, and Stiles dropped the glass to the floor.  

“What?” Stiles asked, turning to look at him.  “It’s okay if you’re mad at me.  You should be mad at me.  I fucked up so badly.  I was terrible to you.”

Peter barked again, shaking his head.

“I don’t know what you want,” Stiles said, exasperated.  “Do you want me to leave?  I wouldn’t blame you if you did.”

Peter tossed his head to the side, and then trotted toward the bedroom, waiting for Stiles to follow him.  A soft clacking sounded through the townhouse as Peter padded to their room and hopped up on the bed.  Stiles followed like an invisible string was tied to Peter’s swishing tail, pulling him forward.  

The wolf grabbed a corner of the sheet in his mouth and held it up, waiting for Stiles to climb in.  Lost for words, Stiles slipped off his shoes, socks, and jeans, and settled on the mattress where Peter was indicating.  He tried not to laugh as the wolf dropped the sheet, turned in three circles, and then flopped down on the bed next to him, curling into his body, head pillowed on his stomach.

“I really am sorry,” Stiles muttered, running his palm over Peter’s head.  “I don’t know how to make it up to you, but I will.  I know how it feels now,” he said softly, moving his hand down to Peter’s neck, fingering through the fur until he found that small semicircle of bare skin.  “I’ve been fighting it like an idiot but… There’s been this thing, pulling me toward you this entire time, but it wasn’t until today that I knew what it was.  It’s our mating bond.  The thing I wrote about in that stupid story.  I chose to do that with you…” he trailed off, emotionally exhausted and coming closer and closer to sleep.  “I just wish I remembered.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't throw rocks, I swear I'm fixing it :P


	24. Feels Like the First Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As the title implies, this chapter is NSFW.

Stiles woke up delightfully warm.  There was a hard, hot body pressed up against him, and his face was tucked up tight in the hollow of Peter’s neck—his very human, non-fur covered neck.  Startling slightly, Stiles raised his head to take a good long look at what he had been missing out on.  Peter was only half covered by the silky sheet, but the half that Stiles could see was just as impressive as he had hoped, and his own body was suitably appreciative.  

His eyes traveled down from Peter’s face, which was softened by sleep, to his throat, which was thick and made Stiles itch to bite, even further to the chest that Peter was always showing off.  It became clear that Peter had good reason to be doing so, because his broad chest and tapered waist, complete with deeply cut abdominal muscles were easily his best features, apart from his face at least.  Stiles’ eyes went further, pausing for a few extra seconds on the dark thatch of hair above Peter’s groin and the outline of his package, which was still obscured by the sheet.  Stiles wanted to run his tongue over that hair to see what it felt like.  He was just marveling over the man’s thighs when Peter spoke.  

“Like what you see, sweetheart?” Peter purred, stretching his arms above his head.  The sheet fell to his waist and slid off, revealing his growing erection and heavy, low hanging balls.  Stiles mouth watered.  He’d never given a blow job before, but he was starting to think he might enjoy it very much if he could get a mouthful of Peter.  

“I’ll take that as a yes,” Peter said, opening his eyes to see his husband, staring at him with an open mouth and lustful eyes.  “You’re allowed to touch me, you know,” Peter added when Stiles didn’t respond.  “I know you’re a bit shy about it, but I promise you, I love you, and my body definitely misses your touch.”

“I don’t feel like I deserve it,” Stiles said finally, after staring a minute or two longer.  “I didn’t earn the right to be with you like this,” he continued, pulling his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around his legs.  “In fact, I think I lost that right a while ago, not even just yesterday.”

“Don’t you think that’s my decision to make?” Peter asked, cocking his head to the side and raising his eyebrows.  

“Of course it is,” Stiles said quickly.  “It’s your body.  I just don’t feel…”  He trailed off, searching for the right word.  “Worthy.”

“You don’t have to be worthy, you just have to be mine,” Peter said sitting up.  He reached a hand up to cup Stiles’ cheek and leaned in for a kiss.  It was a soft, but lingering press of lips.  Stiles felt his heart start to beat faster in his chest.  Peter leaned back, just far enough to brush Stiles’ mouth as he spoke.  “Everyone is worthy of love, especially you.  Just let go for a little while.  You can feel guilty later if you still want to.”

Stiles could feel Peter smiling against his mouth, that coy quirk of the lips that drove him crazy every time Peter teased him.  They kissed again, and this time, Stiles let himself enjoy it.  It was even more than he expected, all tongue and teeth and heavy breath.  He was a little clumsy, not nearly as practiced as Peter was, but he caught on quickly enough.  

Peter pulled Stiles into his lap and Stiles went readily.  Sitting on one of Peter’s thighs with his arms around the wolf’s neck, Stiles was painfully aware of the bulge that was pressed against the underside of his thigh.  There was a layer of fabric in the way, but he could still feel the heat and humidity coming from Peter’s body.  

Now that Stiles was finally here, in Peter’s arms, he felt the weight of his transgressions even more acutely.  It was almost like a shard of glass was in his chest, tearing at his lungs with every breath he took in.  Even the woodsy smell of Peter’s wolf that still lingered on his skin couldn’t distract him from the sharp pain of regret.  

“Peter stop—”

To his credit, the wolf stilled immediately, pulling away far enough to see Stiles’ face, simultaneously inhaling to check Stiles’ scent for anything untoward.  “What’s wrong?”

Even when Stiles’ dangled sex in front of a practically starving wolf, Peter still had his back.  It made Stiles feel all the more guilty.  “I need to apologize,” he said, lowering his eyes.  “For last night.  For everything.  I’m so sorry that I hurt you.”

“Are you going to do it again?” Peter asked, face open and calm, even a little bit amused.

“No,” Stiles said quizzically, unsure if Peter was baiting him in some way.

“Then we’re fine,” Peter replied, squeezing Stiles’ waist in reassurance.  

“That’s it?  No lecture?  No consequences?  No bartering for reparations?”  

“We’re adults, Stiles,” Peter said, somewhat exasperated by his mate’s continued regression to his teenage presumptions.  “I’m your husband, not your father.  You said you wouldn’t do it again, and I believe you.  Even if I couldn’t hear your heartbeat, I would trust your word.  So can we please move on to the make-up sex portion of this program?”

Stiles nodded dumbly, baffled by Peter’s faith in him, but more than willing to let it go in favor of the way Peter’s tongue was pushing into his mouth, claiming him and stealing his breath.  

“Peter,” Stiles barely got out between kisses.  Peter hummed in question, gripping Stiles tightly by the hips, thumbs rubbing circles under his tee shirt.  “I would very much like to be naked now,” he mumbled as Peter started sucking marks onto his neck.  

After prying Peter’s hands away from his back and unwrapping himself, Stiles shimmied his underwear off.  Peter gripped the hem of his ripped shirt and peeled it off of his skin, stretching the neckline so it didn’t pull at Stiles’ hair.  And so, Stiles was nude, and feeling more than a bit exposed.  Just a second ago he had wanted to feel Peter against his skin, and now he was shying away.

“We can do whatever you want,” Peter said, tapping at Stiles’ chin until their eyes locked.  “There are no expectations here, okay?  I’m just happy to be here with you.  After you left yesterday… I didn’t think I’d get that again.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said again, and then, even more quietly, “I think I love you.”  

Peter smiled, an open-mouthed expression of pure joy that Stiles couldn’t remember ever seeing on the man’s face before.  It looked somewhat reminiscent of the way Peter’s wolf had laughed at him the night before, long tongue lolling out of his mouth.  

“Well I know you do,” Peter said, kissing him again.  “So try not to worry so much about it.  Do what comes naturally to you.”

“And if I _naturally_ want to suck on your cock?”  Stiles asked, nodding to the erection in Peter’s lap.  His foreskin had pulled back slightly, revealing a dark red head with a prominent ridge that Stiles wanted to taste.  

“Then that’s what you should do,” Peter said, smiling as Stiles pushed a palm against his chest until he was flat on the bed again, arms pillowed behind his head.  

Stiles licked his lips and leaned down, letting his tongue trace Peter’s slit and corona, getting a feel for the shape.  Peter sucked in a breath through his teeth, stomach muscles clenched tight as Stiles explored.  Stiles swirled his tongue around the head again and then licked down the length.  By feel, he thought Peter’s dick might be shorter than his own, but wider by far.  

As he stretched his lips around Peter’s cock and moved down, Stiles thought it was lucky his mouth was so big, or he might not be able to take it so easily on his first go.  He spent a few minutes moving up and down, choking a bit when he went too far.  

“Easy,” Peter said, pulling his hips back, trying to sink further into the mattress.  “There’s no need to challenge yourself on the first try.”

Stiles snorted at him even as he mapped out Peter’s cock with his tongue, slipping it past the ridge of Peter’s foreskin and to the sensitive flesh below.  He trailed his tongue down further, laving Peter’s balls.  It took a bit of effort, but being careful of his teeth, Stiles sucked one into his mouth, and then the other, massaging them with his tongue, feeling the satisfying heft in his mouth.  Peter squirmed, and Stiles couldn’t tell if the man liked it, so he withdrew, but not before swiping his tongue a bit further down first, testing his husband’s reaction.  

“Do you want to top?” was not what Stiles was expecting to hear.  His head shot up and he squinted at Peter, hardly believing his ears.  

“We do that?” he asked, wondering if there had been any signs he had missed that it was Peter’s preference to bottom.  When he heard whispers, it had sounded like it might have been something they did on occasion, but not all the time.  

“Of course we do that,” Peter said, rolling his eyes.  

“Well, how was I supposed to know that?” Stiles asked, giving Peter an exasperated look.   

“I just asked you,” Peter replied, wanting to move the conversation along.  “So do you want to?  It might be easier for your first time.”

“I…” Stiles began, and then trailed off.  He wanted to, of course he did, but there was something telling him that now wasn’t the right time.  “Don’t get me wrong, I’m definitely going to want to do that at some point, but that’s… not what I need right now.”

“Need?” Peter asked, like Stiles’ wording was confusing.

“Don’t you feel it?” Stiles asked, searching around for Peter’s hand and bringing it up to his face, pressing two fingers against his mating bite.  Stiles mirrored the motion, shivering when the lightning, metallic-like zing coursed through his body.  He felt Peter shift under his touch as well.  “I feel like I need you to be inside me right now.  I need _everything_.  I think we’ve both been needing it for a long time now.”

Peter looked at him pensively.  Stiles knew that Peter was familiar with the sensation, that unexplainable urge to meld into one another that had been buzzing in the background ever since he woke up without his memories.  Even before he liked Peter, even when he was furious with him, he had still ached for the wolf’s touch, _his_ wolf’s touch.  Stiles knew that he felt it too, and yet, Peter was hesitating.  

“Don’t you think ‘everything’ might be a bit much for your first time?” Peter said carefully, not wanting to anger his husband.  “It takes some… working up to.”

“I don’t care,” Stiles said, all sense of self-preservation flying out the window when the tingling in his spine increased.  Peter was rubbing his thumb across that crescent shaped scar, and it made Stiles feel like he had been electrified.  “I don’t care if it takes all night, we’re doing it,” he said finally, leaving no room for argument.

“Okay,” Peter said, dragging the word out a little too long, like he still wasn’t convinced.  “Are you sure you’re not still a little drunk from last night?”

“Yes,” Stiles said, staring at Peter.  “I’m sure.  Just because I want you to knot me, doesn’t mean I’m crazy.  It’s not like we’ve never done it before.”

“True,” Peter said, sitting up straighter, taking the conversation seriously.  “But you were used to it then, and the first time was just… I don’t know, an infusion of adrenaline or something.  We couldn’t help ourselves.”

“And now I’m asking you to do it again,” Stiles said, escaping Peter’s embrace to lunge for the man’s nightstand and pull out a half empty bottle of lubricant.  “You’re telling me you can help yourself right now?” Stiles challenged him, egging him on to the best of his ability.  “Clearly I’m not as irresistible as I thought,” he said with a sigh, fluttering his eyelashes at his husband.  

Peter rolled his eyes again, crossing his arms over his naked chest.  “Excuse me for thinking of your well being, you reckless miscreant,” he said as Stiles tossed the lube at him and then got into position.  He dropped to all fours, facing away from Peter on the mattress, and tossed his head back, curving his back until his ass popped out enticingly.  

“That’s not fair, and you know it,” Peter growled, trying and failing to keep his cool.  Even after his four-legged escapade the night before, his wolf was still close to the surface, begging to be let out again.  

“That was my point,” Stiles said, looking back at Peter over one shoulder.  He dropped down even lower, until his chest was against the mattress.  “Don’t make me beg,” Stiles said seriously.  It might be fun to have Peter tease him like this somewhere down the road, but he didn’t want his first time to be a game.  

“I wouldn’t,” Peter said quickly, surging forward until he could kneel behind Stiles, sitting down on his feet.  “Please don’t think I don’t want you,” he said softly, trailing a palm down Stiles’ spine marveling at the shiver that went through Stiles’ body as his fingers brushed over his tailbone.  “I’ve never wanted you more than I do right now.”

“Prove it,” Stiles said, closing his eyes and letting out a breath.  

Peter couldn’t resist that request even if he wanted to.  Licking his lips, he brought both palms up to Stiles’ ass and parted his cheeks, rubbing one thumb over his pink hole.  A high, short whine escaped Stiles’ throat.  He laid his head down on his crossed arms and breathed heavily into the mattress as Peter continued touching him.  

Gentle rubbing turned to probing, which morphed to the unexpected feeling of Peter’s tongue flicking across his hole.  Stiles gasped, pulling away for an instant, only to push back into Peter’s mouth a moment later.  He squeezed his eyes closed tightly, panting, open-mouthed into the sheets as Peter thrust into him, lapping and flicking inside.  The sensation was completely foreign and yet achingly familiar to Stiles, like he knew he had been right here, in this bed, doing exactly this countless times before.  His mind chased after that thread, but found nothing.  The past was still blank, but for the first time in months, Stiles actually felt like he might be getting closer to reaching it.  

He continued to make incoherent noises against the mattress, biting his bottom lip as Peter teased and stretched him.  Spit seeped out of the corners of his mouth, but Stiles didn’t care.  He was much more interested in the trail of saliva that was dripping down to his balls from where Peter was drenching him, laving with abandon, a growl rumbling low in his chest.  

“Peter,” he finally managed to gasp.  His mouth felt wet, almost drenched, but his throat felt dry.  He swallowed around the sandpaper and said, “Peter.  More.”

His mate obliged almost immediately, pressing his thumbs into Stiles’ hole and inching him apart slowly.  Peter’s tongue flicked in between his fingers, adding to the sloppy mess he was making of Stiles’ ass.  Stiles couldn’t bring himself to care about how debauched he looked.  In truth, he was exceedingly pleased and somehow proud.  This was exactly what he wanted.  He needed Peter to claim him again, to make it feel like he owned Stiles.  

Stiles wanted to know for once and for all that he belonged to Peter and that Peter belonged to him, and he didn’t care how depraved or messy, or _animal_ it looked.  All that mattered was the two of them, coming together, mending what Stiles’ injury had broken.  He wanted to re-solidify their bond, to wear it like a brand on his skin.  He wanted to hear Peter’s wolf cry his name.

Pushing back up onto his hands, Stiles thrust backward, practically impaling himself on Peter’s tongue, desperate to get that tingling sensation deeper into his body.  Peter hummed in approval and took a few seconds to stick the first two fingers of both hands into his mouth.  Slippery with saliva, he brought them back to Stiles’ hole and slipped two of them inside, then all four.  Stiles keened at the stretch, arching his back even more and tossing his head back.  He felt so full already, he could hardly imagine what it would feel like to have Peter seated inside him.

Peter’s thumbs massaged his rim as the other fingers pulled him apart.  When he added his tongue back in, Stiles saw stars, mouth hanging open in a silent scream.  His hips started moving of their own accord, rocking back into Peter’s hand in tiny little thrusts.  The rumble in Peter’s chest grew louder as his mate opened to him, now taking the first three fingers of both of his hands.  

Stiles scratched at the sheets, looking for something, anything to hold on to.  “Peter, I—” he said, the heat inside him growing stronger.  He was only a few seconds from falling over the edge when Peter pulled back, slipping his tongue from Stiles’ hole and sitting back on his heels to watch his husband’s flesh twitch and throb.  Peter could see inside, where he wanted to be, and his dick twitched.  

“You bastard,” Stiles panted, body still trying but failing to chase his orgasm.  

“I’m sorry,” Peter said, wiping his mouth with the shrug of a shoulder, “but if you come now, you’ll tense up and I’ll never get inside.”

“Oh, fine,” Stiles huffed, talking over his shoulder again.  “Can you just speed things along then?”

“Oh, sure,” Peter said, rolling his eyes again.  “I’ll just pop right in and rip you apart.  It’ll be great.”

“Enough with the sass, you sarcastic dipshit,” Stiles said fondly.  “Just hurry up before I die of old age.”

“Yes, dear,” Peter quipped, removing one of his hands from Stiles’ body so he could grab the lube.  He flicked open the top with his thumb and poured a generous helping over his other hand where it met Stiles’ hole, three fingers still in his body.  

“Ahh, cold!” Stiles hissed, dropping his head back down.

“You said fast,” Peter reminded him, swiping his other hand through the puddle that had collected behind Stiles’ balls, and pushing back inside.

“I hate you so much right now,” Stiles muttered, pushing his hips back against Peter’s hands, looking for more stimulation.  He was stretched wide, wide enough for Peter to see the throbbing walls of his body, beating in time with his heartbeat.  

“You think you’re ready?” Peter asked, still not convinced that Stiles had any idea what he was getting himself into.  “I can take some of your pain if it hurts, but not a lot.  I want to know if you’re tearing.”

“Yes, okay,” Stiles agreed, eager to chase that feeling he experienced whenever someone touched his mating bite.  He just knew that when Peter bit down on it when he was finally inside Stiles’ body, everything would snap into place.  “Now, please.”

Peter slid his fingers from Stiles’ hole, watching it try to clench closed on nothing and then stay open, waiting for him.  He poured more lube into his hand and slicked up his cock, hissing at the sensation he had been denying himself until now.  “Okay,” Peter said, putting the head of his cock against Stiles’ hole and watching in awe as it swallowed him, closing down around his ridge with a squelch.  

“Oh fuck,” Stiles groaned, pushing his forehead further against the mattress.  “More.”

Sweat slid down his spine.  Peter traced it with a finger, all the way down to where their bodies met, and inched his hips forward a bit more.  He closed his eyes, marveling at the heat.  It had been so long, Peter had almost forgotten what it felt like, to be encapsulated by Stiles’ warmth.  Gripping Stiles’ hips, he slid home, pressing his hips tight against the curve of Stiles’ ass.  

“There,” he said softly, exhaling through his nose.  “That’s it.”

“Now you’re going to move, right?” Stiles said, voice breaking on the last word.  He was pushing back as hard as he could against Peter, but it still didn’t feel deep enough.  

“Yes, darling,” Peter said, voice dripping honey.  “Now I’m going to fuck you until you come at least twice.”

“Oh, thank God, please, yes,” Stiles babbled, gripping the sheets above his head, chest against the mattress.

Peter rocked forward, then pulled back.  Stiles tried to chase his body, but Peter held firmly to his hips, keeping them apart so he had room to thrust.  Every time they came together, Stiles let out a surprised breath, like he was shocked to have the air pushed out of him.  

“Are you okay?” Peter asked, ready to pick up the pace.

“Yes,” Stiles said, practically whimpering into the bed.  “It’s… so much.”

“Too much?” Peter checked again, barely keeping his cool.

“No,” Stiles said, rocking his forehead against the sheets as he gestured, no.

“Good,” Peter groaned, pulling back hard as he snapped his hips forward, driving deeper and faster.  

“Oh fuck, oh fuck,” Stiles muttered, mouth drying out.  He inched his hips up a little higher until Peter was brushing against that spot that made his knees feel like giving out.  “Fuck!” he said louder when Peter took the hint and started aiming for it.  

Peter bit his lip, loving the sound of his mate cursing as he chased his pleasure.  “Almost?” he asked, feeling the sweat drip down his sideburns.  The faint prickling sensation that signaled his skin stretching was starting to creep up, and he wanted to know Stiles was going to enjoy it.  

“Yeah,” Stiles panted, nodding his head.  “Close.”

Peter leaned forward, changing the angle completely as he dropped down to his hands, twining them with Stiles’ as he arched over the younger man’s body.  They were still tucked tightly together, but now Peter’s chest was also pressed to Stiles’ back, nearly flattening him to the mattress.  

“Tell me if it hurts,” Peter said, mouthing at Stiles’ shoulder as he continued to rock forward.  

Stiles, having lost all verbal function, nodded his head again, tossing it to the side when he was done so Peter could bite down on his deltoid.  Everything felt so hot and slick, and just as he was going to ask when it was going to happen, he started to feel the stretch.  The base of Peter’s dick swelled a little bit at a time, expanding to fit all available space.  Stiles shivered as the knot grew, spreading him even wider, taking him even higher.  He squeezed down tight on Peter’s fingers, curling them into fists with his own as he whined.  

When he finally opened his eyes, Peter’s veins were black, pulling the pain away from his body until it was just a twinge of discomfort.  “I’m okay,” he said, slowly unclenching their hands.  “You can move.”

Peter huffed a laugh into his throat, but circled his hips anyway as his knot continued to fill, pressing deliciously against Stiles’ inner walls.  “There’s not much space to move,” Peter laughed, pressing kiss after kiss to Stiles’ throat as he rolled his hips forward.  “We fit, just like I remember.”

“You wouldn’t think I could forget a thing like this,” Stiles muttered, arching his back into Peter’s body.  He was tense.  Just a little more and Peter’s knot would be tucked against his prostate.  “It’s a _humongous_ thing to forget,” he laughed back, glad they didn’t have to be so serious about it.  

He clenched down, and Peter hissed into his shoulder, seconds away from his peak.  Stiles thrust back hard, locking them together.  At the same time, Peter bit down on that mark behind Stiles’ ear, and everything went fuzzy like a camera going out of focus.  Stiles swore he heard a sound to go along with the sensation this time, a sharp metallic clang like the clapping of cymbals right alongside the zing of lightning up his spine.  

He screamed as Peter came, hot spurts of come flooding his body, pressing everything even tighter.  Stiles was pretty sure he came from the heat alone, it felt like the most pleasurable burn coursing through his core as Peter pulsed into him, knot turning rock hard as it tensed.  

Stiles’ body went limp as he climaxed, practically collapsing under Peter’s weight as his muscles relaxed.  Peter was almost blind with pleasure, but he locked his arms, pushing off Stiles’ back so he could breathe.  “Stiles?” he asked, voice rough like gravel.  “Stiles!” he shouted, and it sounded like a howl, loud enough to wake the dead.

“Hmm?” Stiles hummed, raising his head slightly.  He flopped his neck to the side, opening one eye to peer at Peter.  

“I think you blacked out,” Peter said, rolling to his side with his arms around Stiles’ chest, pulling his body gently along until they were spooned together.  

“I’ll say,” Stiles agreed, still humming pleasurably in his throat.  “That was amazing.  Ten out of ten, would knot again.”

Peter huffed out a laugh, pulling Stiles’ hips in even tighter against his body.  The movement reminded Stiles that they were still very much attached.  It was pleasant, but something was still off about it.  He tossed his head back, turning slightly until he could look at Peter.  The wolf’s face was relaxed and happy, but there was a tinge of yearning to it, like something was still unsettled.  Acting on instinct, Stiles leaned in, pushing Peter’s head to the side with his nose until he could just barely reach the spot behind his ear.  

Stiles bit down, and this time, his vision came into even sharper focus.  Peter’s throat rumbled loud behind him, a pleased growl escaping the wolf’s mouth.  He felt something settle between them, like an aimless planet snapping into orbit around a star.  

“You’re not a planet,” Peter said, running the tip of his nose over Stiles’ shorn head.  “You’re the moon.  You’ve always been the moon.”

Stiles nodded, an unexpected wetness creeping into his eyes as he took that in.  “Thank you,” he said, powering through the tremble in his voice.  “I think I needed to hear that.”

“I told you yesterday, and I’ll tell you again tomorrow,” Peter murmured sweetly into his hair.   “You’re it for me.  You’re my everything, and I wouldn’t change a thing.  About us or about you,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to Stiles’ mating bite.  

“Not even my memory?” Stiles laughed darkly, knowing Peter couldn’t possibly have forgotten how he wasn’t the Stiles he married, not the real Stiles.

“Not even that,” Peter replied, smiling against Stiles’ hair.  “It’d be more convenient, sure.  But I think we’re better for it.  This means more now, knowing what we lost.  It makes me want to savor every minute with you.”

“You romantic mother fucker,” Stiles muttered back, tears escaping his eyes.  He didn’t want Peter to see, but he was pretty sure the loud sniff that came after his words gave him away.  

“I love you,” Peter took the opportunity to say, nuzzling his face into the side of Stiles’ throat.  

“I love you, too,” Stiles croaked out.  Unable to reach Peter’s bicep, he gave the wolf a playful punch in the thigh.  The movement caused Peter to jerk his hips, reminding them that they were still mid-coitus.  “How long does this usually last?” he asked, peering over his shoulder at his husband.  

“Long enough for you to come a few more times,” Peter said with a nip to Stiles’ shoulder.  

“A _few_ more times?” he asked in disbelief.

“Oh, you’d be surprised,” Peter laughed, hiding his face in Stiles’ shoulder blades.  

“Well, prove it then,” Stiles said, raising his eyebrows in challenge.  

“I don’t think you realize how much it drives me crazy when you say that,” Peter groaned, dragging one hand down Stiles’ side to grip his hipbone.  He ground his hips forward into Stiles’, nudging at his inner walls in an interesting way that made Stiles squirm, still overly sensitive.  

“I do now,” Stiles replied, gasping when Peter reached up to pinch at his nipple.  He hadn’t realized that they were so sensitive, but clearly Peter knew all of his idiosyncrasies.  

A firm hand tightened around his new erection, and Stiles jerked into the touch, squeezing his eyes shut tight when his movement pulled Peter against his rim.  “Oh God,” he panted, pleased when Peter turned his head with a finger and captured his mouth, stopping him from babbling any more nonsense.  

If possible, Stiles constricted even tighter around Peter’s knot as the wolf stroked him to full hardness.  He moaned into Peter’s mouth, not knowing which sensation he wanted to chase, or how to move his body.  

It didn’t matter.  Peter had him.  

Peter’s knot softened ever so slightly, giving him a few centimeters to move.  He pulled and pushed at Stiles, rocking back and forth just enough to make Stiles tingle.  At the same time,  Peter stroked him, barely moving his hand at all, just squeezing and rocking his fingers tight right under the head of Stiles’ cock.  

He hummed into Peter’s mouth, barely hanging on, but Peter softened even further, until his knot was not much larger than the head of his dick, making it the perfect size to pop in and out of Stiles’ hole.  Stiles squeezed down tight, enjoying the feeling of Peter teasing at his rim.  The movement gave him enough room to push back toward Stiles’ prostate, driving into him further and further, closer to the edge.

Everything was slippery with come.  Peter popped in and out of Stiles, pushing more creamy fluid out every time with an embarrassing noise.  Looking down, Peter smirked when he saw the foam of his own release frothing over his balls.  “You look so hot like this,” he muttered into Stiles’ ear, “stuffed so full of my come you can’t even fit any more.  It’s just gushing out of you.”  Stiles blushed harder as Peter squeezed him, rubbing at his corona until he tensed and released, spurting his second orgasm onto Peter’s hand.  

Completely enraptured, the wolf pulled away from their kiss to clean his hand with his mouth.  Stiles panted, dazed, as he watched Peter lap up his come.  His spent dick gave a valiant twitch, but ultimately failed to rise again.  Peter, however, wasn’t finished.  He withdrew from Stiles’ body, still hard, and knelt over his husband, one hand on his cock.  Stiles stared, fixated as Peter stroked his own length, eyes trailing over Stiles’ wrung out body.  

Something about seeing Stiles’ limbs all akimbo, relaxed and well-fucked, really did something for Peter, because it was only seconds later that he was coming again, painting Stiles’ chest and abdomen with long stripes.  Stiles shivered at the heat, which quickly turned cold on his skin.  

Peter opened his eyes then, biting down on his bottom lip playfully as he brought his eyes back up to Stiles’.  “Was that okay?” he asked, face snapping back to concerned after he realized what he’d done without permission.

“More than,” Stiles replied, looking down at his chest.  He smirked, looking back to Peter.  “This just drives you crazy, doesn’t it?” he asked, trailing a finger through the puddle of release.  

Peter groaned like he was dying and flopped down on his back next to Stiles, who threw out a hand and laid it across his chest.  Stiles felt the beat of his mate’s heart through his hand, and smiled, completely in awe of how amazing he felt.  Everything had clicked together like lego pieces the moment Peter’s teeth touched his throat, but when Stiles returned the favor, something inside him sang.  

“Is it always like that?” Stiles asked, still reeling.

“I feel like the right answer to that question is no, because that would be horribly cliché,” Peter said, flicking his eyes over to Stiles.  “But truthfully, yes.  For me it’s always like that.”

“Wow,” Stiles replied, exhaling heavily.  “Does that top our real first time?” he asked, still mentally comparing himself to past Stiles.

“Our first first time was…” Peter sighed, closing his eyes as he thought of the dream he’d had a few weeks ago.  “There are no words for it.  I couldn’t do it justice.”

Stiles smiled, looking fondly at his husband’s blissed-out expression.  It was rough not knowing what had really happened, but Peter’s face told him all he needed to know.  Whatever had happened between them, it was enough to keep them passionately in love with each other for over a decade.  Stiles was truly proud of himself for being the one to initiate the encounter.  “Why do we even go to work?”

“We don’t have to, really,” Peter said, a lascivious smirk on his face.  “If you want us both to quit and just make love all day, I’m okay with that.”

“But what would we tell Dad?” Stiles asked, and Peter’s heart warmed at the way the phrasing seemed to include Peter in the family.  

“Practice makes perfect?” Peter said, eyebrows raised.  Stiles shook his head.  “We’re trying for a baby?” Peter tried again, laughing even as he said it.  

“Don’t tell him that,” Stiles scolded, curling into Peter’s body and laying his head on his husband’s shoulder.  “He’d probably think it’s actually possible.”

Peter continued to laugh, chest and belly vibrating with it as he hid his face against the top of Stiles’ head.  

“It’s not, right?” Stiles asked, suddenly worried.  “Because we wouldn’t have been looking for a surrogate if it was possible.”

“No, of course not,” Peter assured him, pressing a kiss to one of the love bites he had left along Stiles’ collarbone.  “You have nothing to worry about.”

“Thank God,” Stiles said, letting out an exaggerated huff of relief.  “That’s just what my medical history needs, an unexplained male pregnancy.”

“Trust me,” Peter said, voice softening as he edged closer to sleep.  “If that were possible, it would have happened a very long time ago.  Probably multiple times by now.”

“Ick, don’t even make me think about that.  It’s terrifying,” Stiles said, shimmying his body against Peter’s like he had just gotten a chill.  

“There’s no wrong way to make a family,” Peter muttered against his throat, breath brushing Stiles’ skin as he spoke.  

“And you still want to do that?” Stiles asked, pulling the swinging arm of the bedside lamp over to him until he could reach the switch.  

“Only if you want to,” Peter said softly.

“I think I do,” Stiles said, smiling at the dark room until they both fell asleep.


	25. Remember Me Tonight When You're Asleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chapter before the epilogue. I just wanted to take a minute and thank you all for reading along as I posted chapters. The response has been amazing and it absolutely helps me think critically about my writing. I think about everything you say and take it into consideration, and while I may not change the plot to suit your requests, I remember your suggestions when I plan my next project. I'm eager to grow and hopefully improve as a writer, and your comments absolutely contribute, so thank you.

Stiles woke abruptly and smacked his head into something, hard.  “For fuck’s sake, Peter!” he shouted, clutching his head.  “How many times have I told you these lamps were going to kill me one day?”

Groggily, Peter pulled himself into a seated position, peering at his husband through half-closed eyes.  “I don’t know Stiles,” he groaned sarcastically.  “How many times?”

“At least a dozen since we bought the damn things at that fancy ass store you like!” Stiles shouted, answering Peter’s rhetorical question.

Peter’s brain caught up to his ears and he squinted at Stiles skeptically.  “And you remember that happening?”

“Of course I remember,” Stiles said, exasperated.  “I—”

Peter cut him off.  “Do you remember anything else?” he asked quickly, trying to keep his voice even.  He didn’t want to get either of their hopes up.  

“Umm… no?” Stiles said, confused.  “I don’t know where that came from, it just popped into my head out of nowhere.”

“Well, it’s like that sometimes,” Peter said softly, reaching out to pull Stiles back toward him.  “Memories can come back in bits and pieces.  It might happen more over time, or maybe not at all.  Try not to worry about it, alright?” he said, rubbing his thumbs in circles on Stiles’ biceps.  

“How are you so calm?” Stiles asked, voice trembling slightly.  “I might be getting my memories back.  Also, we just learned that our lives were ruined by a _stupid fucking lamp_!”

“And I will take the _stupid fucking lamp_ down, trust me, but our lives aren’t ruined.  They’re just different,” Peter said consolingly.  “We’re going to be just fine.”

Stiles nodded, taking deep breaths until he was calm.  

“Get dressed, I’m taking you to the doctor to get checked out,” Peter said, hopping out of bed.  “It’s time to get your staples taken out anyway.”

“Peter,” Stiles said, standing up and waving a hand at his crusty, disgusting stomach.  “Look at me.  I am not leaving this house without showering.”

Smirking, Peter nodded and headed toward the bathroom.  Stiles followed the sound of running water and stepped under the spray.  Strong hands gripped his waist and pulled him in.  Peter nibbled at his deltoid, rumbling happily again, pulling Stiles back toward his morning erection.  Stiles went happily, tilting his head to give Peter better access and shamelessly groping his husband’s ass.  

“Is this how every morning after goes?” Stiles asked, groaning as he turned his face into the hot water.  “Because I could get used to it.”

“It could be,” Peter murmured into his skin, trailing his tongue up to Stiles’ ear and nipping at it.  “If you want.”

“I want,” Stiles said, turning around to capture Peter’s mouth in a wet, hard kiss.  He backed the wolf up into the wall and pressed him into the cold tile.  Ducking his head, Stiles spent a few minutes worshiping Peter’s chest, paying special attention to the dark nipples he had ignored the night before.  

“You know,” Peter mused, head tipped back to lean against the wall.  “It wasn’t really the lamp that hurt you.  You’ve had several concussions before from all your training, and I’m pretty sure you have Repetitive Head Injury Syndrome, which can also be compounded by Second-Impact Syndrome, where you sustain a head injury before a previous head injury has healed properly.  So it was really the stick fighting that wrecked you, and the lamp was just the straw that broke the camel’s back.”

“We’re still getting rid of the lamp,” Stiles said again, before going back to his exploration of Peter’s pectorals and abdominals.

“Well, that goes without saying,” Peter agreed, dropping his hand to rub against the short buzzed hair on the back of Stiles’ head.  “We’re really very lucky that you didn’t develop Chronic Traumatic Encephalopathy.  It didn’t show up on your scans, but we should probably get you re-tested every once in a while to check.”

“Not that I’m not loving the medical sexy talk you’re laying on me right now,” Stiles said, dropping to his knees and looking up at Peter through his long lashes.  “But what the fuck are you talking about?”

“What?” Peter said, smirking coyly.  “You think you’re the only one in this family that likes to do their research?”

Stiles’ heart warmed when he heard Peter call them a family.  It finally felt real.  He had made up with his father, and with Scott, and with Peter, Derek, Lydia, Melissa, and now Amelia.  They really were a family.  “Do you seriously think this is the right time for this conversation?”

Peter shot him a look and opened his mouth to speak, but Stiles cut him off again.

“Do me a favor and shut up so I can concentrate on sucking your dick,” he said, raising his eyebrows and opening his mouth, leaning forward to tease Peter with his hot breath.

“As you wish, darling,” Peter said smugly, leaning his head back against the tile again as Stiles swallowed him down.


	26. We Could Make Forever Feel This Way

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here comes that conclusion you've all been waiting for. I hope you enjoy it.

3 months later

The wedding was beautiful, and watching Stiles’ awestruck face as he walked Amelia’s best friend down the aisle almost made Peter want to suggest they renew their own vows.  Stiles hadn’t had another vague flash of their past together since “the lamp incident” as they had taken to calling it, so it wasn’t like he really remembered their courthouse wedding anyway.  Sipping on a glass of champagne, which was laced with wolfsbane, Peter scanned the dance floor.  There he found Stiles, spinning Lydia around in haphazard circles.  

It had taken a lot of work, but his husband was back to being fighting fit.  He taught martial arts and several other defense classes, and had even gone back to yoga—to the delight of his band of grandmas—but the dancing still eluded him.  Which wasn’t to say that he wasn’t graceful on his feet.  Months of practice and the calming exercise of re-learning yoga had done wonders for Stiles’ body, of which Peter was most appreciative.  Even so, the fighting was what really drew Stiles’ interest back to the gym, even if he wasn’t allowed to take any hits to the face anymore.

“Do we really have to sit here and watch you moon over your mate’s scrawny ass when I can’t even have a god-damn drink?” Cora growled from the chair next to Peter.  It had only taken one phone call and the promise of a very fat check for his niece to fly up from South America to act as their live-in surrogate.  They hadn’t wanted to ask her before, knowing she detested children, but Stiles’ injury had changed a lot of things.  They no longer wanted to wait for the right time.  It had become painfully clear to Stiles and Peter that life could change in an instant, and there was no time like the present.  Thankfully it had taken on the first procedure, and Cora was now two months along with Stiles’ child.  

“It’s bad enough I have to be your incubator, you shouldn’t force me to be witness to your gross puppy-love face,” she said, propping her feet up on her uncle’s lap.

“What did we say about disparaging the baby’s parents?” Peter chided, raising his eyebrows at Cora.

“It doesn’t even have ears yet, that rule can’t possibly be in effect,” Cora argued, tossing her hair back over her shoulder.  

“Fine,” Peter allowed.  “But once you reach 18 weeks, it’s only nursery rhymes and classical music for that little one,” he said, gesturing toward his niece’s stomach.

“How many times did you read that stupid pregnancy book?” she asked, smirking at him.

“Just a few,” Peter replied, fighting a smile when the music changed to something upbeat and Stiles started gyrating like a wet noodle.

“Disgusting,” Cora muttered, turning her head toward her brother.  “Come on, Derek,” she said, pulling his attention away from his new fiancée.  “Back me up here.”

“I think it’s sweet,” he said softly, ducking his head slightly.

“Admit it, you’re dying to be an uncle,” she huffed.  “You’ve been waiting for those two to pop out a kid ever since you and Lydia got engaged.  Your clock is ticking, bro.  I swear I can smell it.”

“I admit nothing,” Derek said, giving his sister a wide, close-lipped smile.  

“I hate you all,” Cora growled, crossing her arms angrily.  

The song ended and the tinkling of glass told the guests that someone was going to be making a toast.  Having already heard one from Melissa and the Sheriff and Amelia’s father, it seemed to be Stiles’ turn.  He took the microphone, hastily wiped his palm on his the leg of his pants, and let out a calming breath.  

“Hi everyone!” he said, waving to the rest of the crowd.  “I’m Stiles.  Some of you may know me as Scott’s brother from another mother, and some of you I’m just meeting for the first time.  There also may be a small number of you who I’ve forgotten, so if that’s the case, I’m sorry about that, I’m sure you’re all wonderful!” he joked, and was thankfully met by a full laugh from the guests.  

“I missed out on a lot of things in my life, and the things I didn’t miss, I’m even missing some of them now, too.  It may sound like a tragedy, like an unhappy ending to a good book, but that’s not the case.”  He caught Peter’s eye and gave his husband a nervous smile.  “I’m well versed in endings, having caused quite a few of them myself, but I’m also an expert on new beginnings.”  He looked toward the happy couple.  Scott and Amelia were smiling as they held their champagne flutes, genuinely happy to hear what he had to say.  It was a new experience for Stiles, having the attention of a crowd, and as nerve-wracking as it was, he intended to make the most of it.

“It’s terrifying to start over, to reinvent yourself, like so many of us have, but it’s also exciting.  Sometimes it’s nice to _not_ have all the answers, to see things from a new perspective.  It’s a privilege to be able to look at yourself through another person’s eyes.  To see and feel how much they truly love you, and to anchor them.  So, my advice is this.  Seeing as how I’ve only been aware of my marriage for a few months, feel free to take it with a grain of salt,” he added, smiling at Peter and the rest of the Hales.  

“Never stop learning.  Never stop searching for new things to love about each other.  Even if you’ve been married as long as Peter and I actually have been, there’s always something new to explore… Like your partner’s strict skin care regimen, for example.”

The crowd chuckled and Stiles waited until they were quiet before continuing.  “Take the time to inspect every detail, because you never know when they’re going to slip away.  Don’t treat every day like it’s your last day together.  Treat every day like you’ve just met, like it’s the first day of the rest of your life.  If you look at someone like it’s the first time, you’ll find something unexpected and amazing to love every single day, I promise you… even if it’s just that line of beauty marks on Scott’s ass.”  Stiles smirked, looking over to Amelia.  “Take your time and enjoy your journey together.  There is no greater gift in this world than a new beginning.”

Stiles licked his lips, staring at his husband with all the love and joy he would have expressed if this were their own wedding day.  Peter fought down the urge to cry when he felt that familiar zing flash up his spine as he watched Stiles touch his own neck.  Cora punched him in the arm, hard, pulling him out of himself long enough to hear the end of Stiles’ toast.

“Scott, Amelia, I can’t wait to see what life has in store for you.  Amelia, I couldn’t be happier that you’re joining our family.  Scott, I’ll be your brother forever.  I love you both.”

Scott stood, gripping Stiles in a rib-cracking hug as the rest of the party clapped and whooped in praise and excitement.  Amelia squeezed in under Scott’s arm and pressed a kiss to Stiles’ cheek, cupping the side of his face and whispering, “Thank you,” in his ear.

Amelia’s best friend was called up to make the next toast, and Stiles walked back across the dance floor to take the empty seat next to Peter.  Lightly pushing Cora’s feet off his lap, Peter leaned in to kiss Stiles’ cheek and press his nose to Stiles’ throat.  He didn’t pull away, but kept only a hair’s breadth from his husband’s skin as he whispered, “You have a way with words, darling.”  Stiles could feel Peter’s lips barely brushing against his throat as he spoke.  Peter smirked against his skin as he said, “Maybe it’s time you write another story.”

Stiles pulled his face back, smiled at Peter, honey brown eyes flashing with mischief.  He leaned in for a kiss, making it hot and messy and wildly inappropriate for the present company, taking the opportunity to climb into Peter’s lap.  Cora made a disgusted retching sound, but Peter only had ears for Stiles when he pressed his face into Peter’s neck and said, “No way in hell, Mr. Hale.  This author has hung up his quill for good.”

He could feel Peter’s cheek twitch as the man faked a pout.  Derek rolled his eyes, but Peter ignored him, whispering low into Stiles’ ear, knowing full well even Lydia was listening in.  “How am I going to go on living not knowing what happens to Maxwell and Caleb?”

“I think you’ll be able to figure it out,” Stiles said, grinning into Peter’s throat.  “You have a vivid imagination.”

“Only because I have your body as inspiration,” Peter quipped, leaning forward to trail the tip of his tongue over the cord in Stiles’ throat.  

“We’re sitting right here,” Derek whined, dropping his head into his hands as Lydia watched with blatant interest.  “Can’t you guys keep that to yourselves?”

“I think we’re being asked to leave,” Stiles said, chuckling, arms wrapped tight around Peter’s neck.  “Come on, let’s go tell Scotty we need to take Cora back to the hotel to rest.  We can go to bed early,” he teased, running his teeth along Peter’s earlobe.

“Like hell you do,” Cora growled, kicking Stiles in the shin.

“No need, darling,” Peter said sweetly, sending a glare over Stiles’ shoulder toward his niece and nephew.  “They’re playing our song.”

“ _They are NOT_ ,” Stiles crowed skeptically, not hearing anything.  “No one would ever play that song at a wedding.”

“You’re kidding me,” Derek groaned again.  “There is no way this is your song.  It’s awful,” he commented, just as Stiles heard the music grow louder halfway through the intro of _As Long As You Love Me_.  Scott waved at him from the DJ’s booth, grinning maniacally.  Giggling wildly, Stiles blew him a kiss, which he mimed catching and shoving in his pocket.  

Lydia punched Derek in the bicep, hard enough to make him wince.  “It’s sweet,” she said, tossing her head in Stiles and Peter’s direction.  “Go have fun.  We’ll be right behind you.”  Derek made a strangled noise in his throat, but smiled back to his fiancée anyway.  

“You are so whipped, Der,” Cora commented, stabbing angrily at the lemon slices in the bottom of her glass with her straw.  “It’s sad, really.”

“Bite me,” Derek said, a huge sarcastic smile on his face.  A snapping noise let Stiles know that Cora was already showing her fangs.  It would be a miracle if she made it through her pregnancy without drawing blood from either Peter or Stiles.

“I think that’s our cue,” Stiles said, getting up from Peter’s lap.  He held out a hand, but Peter didn’t take it.  Instead, the wolf trailed his hands upward, following the curve Stiles’ body, landing softly on his hips.  

“Keep it PG, for the love of God,” Derek complained, watching his uncle lead Stiles to the dance floor.  

“No promises,” Stiles shot back, looking over his shoulder as they walked away.

“There are children here!” Lydia scolded with a pleased smirk.  

“Maybe they’ll learn something,” Peter said with a wink, turning his back on the rest of the group.  

“You’re such a weirdo,” Stiles said, throwing his arms back around Peter’s neck, wildly swaying his head back and forth to the beat.  “I love it.  You’re going to be the best dad.”

“I’m pretty sure that title is going to lie with you, but I’ll let you think what you want for now,” Peter told him, stilling Stiles’ exuberant movements and pulling him in to rock slowly back and forth.  No matter how much Peter loved the way Stiles’ body moved in bed and at the gym, since his accident, the spastic dancing was just embarrassing for everyone involved.

Stiles contented himself with laying his head on Peter’s shoulder, listening to the man sing the lyrics into his ear like he did that day back in the hospital, but all the more intimate this time around.  It felt so long ago now, the anxiety and absolute terror of being a man out of time, confused and scared of what his life had become when he wasn’t looking.  

Once Stiles saw Peter’s love for what it was and gave their relationship the chance it deserved, there was no turning back for him.  One bite to the neck was all it took to make Stiles sure they could make it work.  Things were still stilted and confusing on occasion, but they had fallen into a rhythm.  The little daily things that made up a marriage felt natural to him now.  They were moving forward, looking ahead toward what they could be, not what they once were.  

Stiles inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of Peter’s expensive cologne and rubbing his cheek against the wolf’s suit jacket.  “You should have worn that purple shirt with this suit,” he commented, eyes fluttering open as he turned his head up toward Peter.

“Which one?” Peter asked, loving that Stiles had an opinion about what looked best on him.  

Stiles' eyes drifted away, staring hard at the lapels of Peter’s jacket.  “The silk one I got you for… for your birthday?”

Blue eyes twinkling in that way they did when Stiles seemed to be following the thread of a memory he had lost, Peter smiled.  “You spilled a glass of red wine on it,” he said, pressing on the back of Stiles’ head until he was resting against his shoulder once more.  “But I still have it in the back of the closet.  The dry cleaner couldn’t get it out.”

“Oh,” Stiles said, lips twisting into a wistful smirk.  “I’ll get you another one.  You looked hot in that.”

“Yes, I  thought so as well,” Peter said softly, leaning down to kiss Stiles’ temple, a hint of a smile on his lips.

The song was nearing its end, and Stiles sunk further into Peter’s body, opening his eyes long enough to catch a glimpse of Derek dancing with Lydia, a grim look of determination on his face.  Peter spun him around, dipping him in an exaggerated movement, hands so firm and sure on his body.  He looked up to see his father and Melissa clapping, the sound of Scott’s voice whooping somewhere behind him.  

Pulling him back up, Peter’s hands were insistent and possessive at his back, pulling him into another devastating kiss.  “Ready to call it a night?” Stiles said, lips tingling.

“I thought you’d never ask,” Peter replied, taking his hand and pulling him from the dance floor.  With a polite, small hand gesture, he had Cora getting up from her seat and following them out the door.  

Stiles stared out the window of their rental car on the ride back to the hotel, marveling at the mountains in the distance, already looking forward to fucking with the balcony doors of their suite open to the cool night air.  Peter hooked his pinky around Stiles’ pointer finger, driving with only one hand on the wheel.  Cora cleared her throat, but Peter just smirked, watching Stiles’ lick his lips out of the corner of his eye.  Stiles still didn’t remember their first trip to Denver, but right in this moment, he didn’t think he needed to.  There were more than enough memories to make this time around.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a wild ride! Thanks for hanging out with me for a while. If you liked this, check out some of my other Steter stuff, or the other ships for that matter. ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Come [tumble](http://aflailureandamasterpiece.tumblr.com/) with me. (Blog is sometimes NSFW) (Who am I kidding, it's always NSFW)


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